Let Slip the Dogs of War
by Red Tape Will Drive You Nuts
Summary: In Riverton, Michigan, a young woman is attacked by a bloodthirsty monster of a most unusual type. When Sam and Dean arrive, the case gets even stranger as they learn more about the monster's habits; they don't recognize its behavior or understand its motives. Is this a new beast, unrecorded in the lore? Or a forgotten foe with a new face? Final battle scene!
1. Nothing But The Blood

**Chapter one of a 5-10 chapter Fic. Set Season 6, after "Like a Virgin."  
**

**Disclaimer: As another fan fiction writer so eloquently put it - me no own, you no sue.**

* * *

Ella had never been the type to type to take undue risk.

It was Stan's fault she was out here, in truth. Lana had gone home early for the night, complaining of cramps. Ella had had been forced to stay until one to help Stan with cleaning and closing the diner, and the inconsiderate asshole hadn't even bothered to drive her home. She only lived a few blocks away, but Riverton was easily the worst city of the metropolitan area, with more murders per capita than Detroit. She tightened her sweater around her shoulders against and imaginary chill and picked up her pace, trotting past a sleeping homeless man and his lazy-eyed dog.

The night was still and inky, as most of the street lights hadn't been functional in over a decade. She used the lighted windows of ground floor apartments and all-night check cashing stores to guide her way to her small apartment above a dry cleaner. The entrance was in an alley that was typically full of people at all hours, but that tonight was as silent as an empty tomb. Unsettled by the unusual stillness, Ella stomped up the metal stairs, terrified the noise would draw out whatever had sent everyone packing.

When the door was closed and locked behind her she leaned against it, breathing hard. Strands of her long, red hair were caught in her mouth, but she made no move to spit them out, so glad was she to be inside.

Even in daylight, her trip home was often accompanied by several lewd requests and a few loud whoops. She hated the crowded streets and constant assaults, but somehow the absence of them was worse. For the last two weeks, fewer and fewer people were on the streets. Most of the local businesses were thrilled with the development, but it made Ella more uncomfortable than she could say. Tonight, the complete vacancy of the alley had sealed the deal.

She was leaving.

She had planned to leave soon anyway – she was starting college in Lansing in a few months, and had wanted to stay in Riverton until the fall because of the cheap price of her apartment. But now, it seemed even that would be too dangerous – she was like to disappear entirely if she stayed another night. She would just-

A chair scraped against tile in the kitchen.

She froze, arresting her breathing and listening intently. He hand moved unconsciously toward the shelf beside the door where she kept a large and sharp knife. She moved carefully, praying she wouldn't knock anything over.

"It's not there."

It was a man's voice, croaky and sick. He sounded young, but frail. He had probably come looking for money or valuables, and not finding any, had waited for her to return with her wallet. He was likely a drug user – it explained the voice – and would leave if she gave him whatever money she had.

"I don't have much," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Her purse contained about eighty dollars in tips, enough to satisfy most junkies looking for a fix. "Just take it. I won't put up a fight."

He laughed, then started coughing and didn't stop for several minutes. Ella found herself relieved; if he was really ill, she might stand a chance of fighting him off if he tried anything.

"It's not money I need, Ella," he said. The chair moved again, and she kicked herself for not putting a lamp near the door – the only light in the area came from the fixture on the kitchen ceiling, and her guest hadn't bothered to turn it on.

"What then?" Her voice was weak, but she was past caring; if he didn't want money, this would get very bad for her.

"So many things," he said. "But from you, blood. Lots of it."

She turned the knob of the door behind her, her heart trip hammering in her chest when it wouldn't turn. She turned it harder, whimpering.

"No, no, Ella," he said. "It's not going to open." She heard him stand and start toward her, and she turned around and wrestled the doorknob with all her might, tears leaking from her eyes.

"Don't cry," he said, less than a foot from her back. "I won't hurt you, I promise. You might even live. But I've got to have it, Ella. I'm sorry, I really am, but I've got to have it."

She bolted around him, tearing into the kitchen, and ran into him, standing in front of the refrigerator. She recoiled in horror, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Hold still," he said.

* * *

Sam woke to Dean snoring, loudly and intermittently. He would breathe normally for a while, and then a giant foghorn would blow in his throat, jerking Sam out of his near-asleep state and into full and startled wakefulness. It was annoying, but Dean was beyond tired, and as stressed out as Dean was over this wall business, he deserved a rest.

Perhaps it was better that he didn't sleep, anyway. His dreams were made of stuff Dean would have a heart attack over if he knew about, and they frightened Sam, too. He'd done things, even worse things than Dean knew, and it was better that he didn't dwell on them. Most of them couldn't be helped, he sensed, and would only serve to weaken the wall, and himself. Even as he tried to push them away, images flowed unbidden into his waking consciousness, soaked in blood and pain. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids, as if he could physically push the memories away, but it only served to hurt his eyes while he watched flashes of a dying man on the backs of his eyelids.

He sighed, turning onto his back and hoping the ceiling patterns had some advice for him. He was thinking of going out for an early breakfast when he heard Dean stirring.

Dean clapped his hands to his face and grunted, rubbing his hands against the stubble on his cheeks. "What time is it?" he asked, yawning and looking over at Sam.

"Six."

Dean sat up, stretching his arms over his head. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep," Sam murmured. "Too much noise."

Dean looked confused, then shrugged, rolling off the mattress. "I got first shower," he called, half in the bathroom already. Sam sighed, picking up the newspaper from the day before.

When Dean emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later with a towel around his shoulders, Sam beckoned him over. He came, tossing the towel onto his bed.

"Anything good?"

"Maybe," Sam said. "Michigan. Bunch of people missing. Mostly locals, but one or two out-of-towners, too."

"How many we talking?" Dean opened an empty pizza box, picking up an old crust.

Sam made a face as Dean shoved the stale crust into his mouth. "Seven or eight official, but the article says there's a few vagrants missing, too. Lived in a place called Riverton. Not the best area of town."

"Think it's our kind of thing?"

"Well, they've all gone missing this month, and even for an area like this, it's enough to get attention. Couldn't hurt to check it out."

"Yeah, why not." Dean pulled on a shirt. "Maybe a fresh hunt'll convince you to leave the past where it belongs."

Sam tossed the paper onto the bed, climbing out. "Don't start, Dean."

"I'm just sayin'," Dean said with a shrug, "that it'll be good to get your mind off it, is all. Fresh start."

Sam scoffed. "I hurt people, Dean. A lot of people."

"You don't know that."

Sam gave him a look.

"Okay, so maybe you went Dexter Morgan on a few folks. But you didn't have a soul then, Sam, and now you do. I'm just trying to protect it. Sue me."

"What about the people I hurt, Dean?" Sam didn't bother with a shower; there wasn't enough hot water in the building, and it wasn't exactly warm outside. "Who protected them? They deserve more than a damn shrug and a platitude."

"A what?"

Sam rolled his eyes, buttoning a blue plaid shirt. "You have no idea how this feels, Dean."

"Sam-"

"This isn't happening to you, okay? It never does. And maybe it's because you're better, or cleaner, or saved, or an angel's vessel – I don't know."

"Don't do that-"

"It's true, and you know it. Remember that hunter I killed when I got possessed? He's still dead. They have no idea what really happened to him, do they? Demon viruses, Satan, every fucking nasty dark thing loves to ride Sam Winchester."

"It wasn't like that, Sam."

Sam gave a rueful laugh, turning away. "The point is, I'm the one who gets to wake up to a pile of blood and bodies, wondering what horrible things I've done. So don't tell me to forget it, Dean. Don't tell me not to worry about it. You have no _idea_ what it's like. None."

The motel door slammed behind him, and Dean watched as he paced in front of the window, shaking his head and murmuring to himself. Dean cleaned what he could, then grabbed their wallets and his gun and headed outside. Sam was leaning against the car, looking at something far off to his right.

"Well, MapQuest says that Riverton, Michigan is only two hundred miles from here, and that it'll take us three and a half hours to get there. Want to see if we can make it in two?" Dean wiggled his eyebrows, but Sam just sighed, opening the passenger door with a loud squeak and getting in.

"Tough crowd," Dean murmured.

* * *

He'd have to let it go for now, but eventually they would have to button up this guilt-fest that Sam was having over the people he may or may not have hurt. The kid was having nightmares, a sure sign that things were going to shit at the best of times, and the last thing they needed was for him to go exploring dark corners of his mind, looking for clues about his Van Damme period.

Dean sucked his teeth, spitting a piece of hardened pizza crust and settling behind the wheel.

They were still on the road five hours later, thanks to some road construction and a truly confusing accident. The department of transportation had narrowed the road to an alternate merge, which somehow caused an accident involving a cow and an overturned semi. Dean put the car in park, closing his eyes and resting his head against the seat. Sam was on the phone.

"Any security camera footage?" he asked someone. Dean looked over at him, interested; the area where the disappearances had happened was seedy all around, so there weren't like to be any cameras. Sam must have uncovered some new information. "Okay. Thanks, Bobby."

"How'd this thing get caught on tape? I thought he frequented the red light district."

"Not the thing; one of his victims. A woman, Ella Thomas. He dumped her from his car in front of a Detroit emergency room last night. They didn't think anything of it at first, until she started talking."

"How could they not think anything of it?" Dean frowned. "He rolled the woman out of a car in front of the emergency room. That didn't strike them as a little off the wall?"

"Apparently it's not all that uncommon," Sam said. "Lots of gang activity in this area, people trying not to get caught dropping someone off at the hospital."

Dean raised his eyebrows, then shook his head. "Dark days."

"Yeah. Anyway, she said a man was waiting for her in her apartment, saying he needed her blood. Told her he was sorry before he bled her like a cow."

"Never heard of a vamp who left a victim alive, let alone gave 'em an apology and courtesy ride to the hospital."

"I don't think it was a vamp. She was bled from her wrists and her thighs. No neck. Clean cuts, almost surgical."

"What the hell?"

"I know. Bobby couldn't get anything else. The FBI is there, they think it's a serial killer or something."

"Peachy. Like this isn't going to be hard enough without the Keystone Kops crawling up our asses." Traffic began to move and Dean restarted the car. "Bobby have any idea what this thing might be?"

"Lots of monsters like blood, but almost all of them kill their victims. Could be demons working some kind of ritual, I guess, but then why drop her at the hospital? Doesn't make sense."

"Are we sure this is even connected to the disappearances?"

"It's not guaranteed, but the girl's from Riverton, and she lives smack dab in the middle of the area where most of the missing are from. There's no way it's a coincidence."

As traffic thinned, Dean floored the pedal. "Fabulous. So we got seven missing, one woman carefully drained of blood, the feds, and an apologetic, blood-stealing-non-vamp-maybe-demon who's M. I. A."

Sam gave a sideways nod. "Sounds about right."

* * *

McNair Memorial hospital was eight stories high, though only the first four seemed to be in use; most of the windows of the upper four were dark and broken, with cheap blinds swinging in and out of the building with the breeze. The building was constructed out of old red brick, and reminded Dean of many an orphanage and mental hospital they had visited while hunting. The day was gray and drizzly, and he had to squint to keep the water out of his eyes.

The sidewalks outside were cracked and overgrown, and forty or fifty people were seated against the wall of the building, coughing and cradling various injuries. The doors were sheets of scratched and cracked glass, and the line of people stopped there. There was a security guard leaning against a steel trash can, talking to a woman with thin hair and a small child clinging to her thigh. He straightened his posture when Sam and Dean approached, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of his pants.

"Do you need something?" he spoke with the tone of a man who wasn't often permitted to ask questions.

"I'm Agent Sharp, and this is Agent Keen," Dean said. He ignored Sam's curious glance and raised his eyebrows at the Rent-A-Cop. "We're here to speak to a witness, an…" Dean pulled out a note pad and pretended to read it. "…Ella Thomas."

"Wait here," he said, giving Dean a derisive once-over as he pulled hard on the old metal frame of the door, yanking it open. He disappeared around a corner once inside.

"I think he likes you," Sam said.

"Shut up." Dean looked down the sidewalk. The people were glancing at him warily, especially the men. One of them stood and limped away once Dean made eye contact with him. Dean turned to Sam, gesturing in the man's direction.

"Detroit FBI Fan Club president. Ran to get his t-shirt for me to sign."

Sam smirked.

"Agents Sharp and Keen?"

Dean shrugged. "Saw it on South Park."

Sam gave a humorless smile. "Seriously, we might not get many leads from the people here, Dean. Gonna make things more complicated."

"Yeah." Dean grimaced, putting his hands in his pockets. "The good news just keeps on coming, doesn't it?"

A doctor emerged from the hospital, walking briskly. The guard followed close behind, looking cowed and sullen.

"I'm so sorry," she said, beckoning. They followed her inside to a nurse's station, doing their best not to bump into anyone. It was a bustling place, and gurneys moved past with surprising speed. "Guntrip can get a bit overzealous, but he's a good guard. Prevented some real tragedies, you know?"

The light above the nurse's station flattered her brown skin much better than the natural light over the overcast day had done. She was young, perhaps twenty eight, and pretty, despite her cheap, ill-fitting clothes and harried appearance. She had an air of competence about her that Dean rarely saw in doctors anymore. Granted, the last doctor he'd seen had set up shop in the back of a Chinese restaurant, took cash only, and had literally killed him. Perhaps he was a bit biased.

"I'm sure he is," Dean said. He gave her his best charming smile, and was rewarded with a reluctant grin. He could feel Sam's irritation radiating at him. It just made him grin wider.

"I understand you're here to see Ella Thomas?"

"Yes," Sam said before Dean could speak. "Please."

She led them through two more doorways, walking so fast that Sam struggled to keep up. The halls were packed with people – doctors, nurses, patients, visitors, children – and Sam wondered how anything ever got done. Something else about the crowds bothered Sam; even for an inner-city hospital, this place was busy. It reminded him of something, something important, but it lay just out of his grasp, in a part of his mind that he couldn't access. It wasn't behind the wall, he could sense that, but it was connected to it. Somehow. He shook his head in frustration, nearly running into Dean when he stopped suddenly.

"She's right in here," the doctor said.

She had lowered her voice, so Sam followed suit. "The middle bed there?"

"Yeah."

Sam and Dean exchanged knowing glances, and Sam headed over to talk to Ella while Dean stayed to talk to the doctor. Dean wiggled his eyebrows and winked, looking far too pleased with the arrangement. Sam shook his head, hoping that Dean would get something useful out of her.

He turned to Ella.

Her arms were bandaged heavily from her wrists to her elbows. He couldn't see her legs, but it was likely that they were bandaged, too. She was deathly pale and thin, and her red hair only exaggerated the effect. She reminded Sam of Anna Milton, only taller. She turned her head in his direction when she heard him approach, and he pulled up a rolling stool, sitting beside her.

"Hey," he said. "I'm Sam."

She smiled, her green eyes trying and failing to sparkle. "You're cute."

Sam looked down and smiled. "Thanks."

"And nice, too." He voice was weak, hardly more than a whisper. She eyed his suit. "Another Fed?"

"Guilty as charged." He took her hand. "You know why I'm here, don't you, Ella?"

Her smile sank into her face, like water into the ground. "Yeah."

Sam stroked her arm over the bandage. "What do you remember about him?"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "He was young," she said. "Younger than me, like a teenager, maybe. And he was afraid."

Sam blinked. "What? Of you?"

"No," she said. "Of something else. I thought at first he was sick or something, but he wasn't. He was terrified of someone. I don't know who." She shifted her position on the bed.

Sam filed the knowledge away for later. This case was getting crazier by the minute.

"He wrote on me, too," she said. "On my arms and legs. With a chalk or a rock or something. It disappeared, because it wasn't there later when they wrapped my arms, you know?"

Sam frowned, squeezing her hand. She smiled gratefully, but kept her eyes closed. "Did you see what he was?"

She shook her head, then winced. "It was dark. I don't know how he saw, either." She swallowed. "Then, he said I had to fight. Fight as hard as I could. He begged me."

Sam couldn't think of anything to say, so he remained silent.

"So I did. He chased me around my apartment, breaking things and apologizing over and over again. It was insane. And when he caught me, he held me down tight. He wasn't much bigger than me, but he was so strong. But it didn't hurt," she said. "When he cut me. There was no pain at all. Just like he promised."

"He promised you there wouldn't be any pain? He said that?"

"Yeah. He seemed like a sweet kid, apart from the whole bleeding me out part." She chuckled.

"I'm sorry to have to ask this, Ella, I really am, but did you see what he did with the blood? Did he do anything unusual?"

"I'm sure he did," she said. "But I didn't see what it was. I passed out, and when I woke up, I was here."

Sam let go of her hand and looked away, thinking. He had never heard a story like Ella's before, and after all they had seen, that worried him. Something niggled in the back of his mind again, but he couldn't see how it was connected to this. Nothing behind the wall could have anything to do with this.

"Hey, Sam?"

He took her hand again. "Yeah?"

"Do you think he'll come back again? After me, I mean, since I'm not dead?"

"No," he assured her. It was quite true; if this thing had left her alive after all that, it was unlikely that it cared about being caught. It made Sam even more nervous, and even less sure about what was going on. "No, I think he's done, Ella. People like him usually leave town pretty quick after stuff like this. You have absolutely nothing to worry about."

She was visibly relieved, and Sam was glad. It felt good to give someone comfort after all of the awful things he knew he'd done, even if he didn't remember them. "Okay."

He stayed with her until she fell asleep, then waited for Dean in the crowded hallway. He emerged from an office not far from Ella's room, reading his notepad.

"Please tell me you weren't banging Gabrielle Union in there," Sam said. "We have a serious problem here, Dean. We don't have time for this."

Dean made a face and waved his notebook. "Information gathering, Mr. Celibacy," he said. "And I got some pretty interesting stuff. Pull anything useful out of The Little Mermaid?"

Sam's brows knitted in confusion.

"What?" Dean said. "I'm low on redhead references, okay? Haven't had much time for TV lately."

"Yes, Dean, I got a lot of info out of Ella. But I don't know how much of it is going to help us. I've never heard of anything like this."

Sam relayed what Ella had told him as they walked down the hall and out the doors. When they reached the impala, Dean's optimism had waned.

"What?"

"I know." Sam sighed. "What did the doctor have to say?"

The slammed the Impala's doors in unison. "I dunno if it's got squat to do with these vanishing residents or your Apologetic-Bleeder-Artist-Anesthesiologist, but it's definitely weird. It might not even-"

"Spit it out, Dean." Sam snapped.

Dean gripped the steering wheel and shot Sam an irritated glance. "You wanna run that by me again?"

"Sorry," Sam said, running a hand through his hair. "It's just, I don't know what's going on, okay? I want to wrap this up. I've got a really, really bad feeling about all this." Sam wrung his hands and avoided Dean's gaze.

Dean's irritation shifted to worry. "Are you okay?"

Sam leaned his head back and sighed. "Just tell me what you've got, Dean. Please."

Dean stared at him for a little while longer, then shook his head, starting the car. "She says blood's been going missing from the hospital for the last few weeks. Bags of it. Started out just one or two, but yesterday? _Twelve._ Nothing caught on camera, nobody saw anything, no cars speeding off, the cops haven't caught anybody trying to sell it, no registered vampires in the area – squat. Everything points to some monster with a taste for B positive, but vamps don't apologize or leave witnesses, and nothing else needs blood by the boatload. Demons don't take victims to the hospital, and they don't need to steal blood from anywhere, especially not this much."

"So we've got stolen hospital blood now, too?"

"That's not all," Dean said. "There've been a lot more bleeders rolling up to the emergency room doors lately, and I don't just mean the kind the homeboy drop-off kind. The worst part – I don't think these stabbings and shootings and beatings were committed by our mystery monster. There's just been a random uptick in asskicking. She says the crowds we saw today are nothing compared to nights."

Sam shook his head and tapped his tongue on the back of his teeth. "So we have a pile of new information that he can't do anything with? Fucking great."

"Relax, Sam," Dean said. "We haven't even run all this by Bobby yet, and there's even Samuel, if we get really desperate."

"Don't fucking tell me to relax while people are dying, Dean." Sam bit his lip.

"I was just-"

"I know what you were doing." He rested his head against the window. "Just…let's just get to a motel and call Bobby, okay?"

Dean waited, but Sam didn't turn back to him or say anything else. Eventually, he turned back to the road. The rain was coming down in earnest, and he turned up the wiper speed, wishing he could see things more clearly.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed chapter one! Please leave a review if you have the time.**


	2. Where Goes The Neighborhood?

The Blood Thief was late, and so he ran.

His enormous boots destroyed small puddles and shrank larger ones, the loose earth from the ridges of his soles falling away in his haste, muddying the previously clear water. Small animals fled from the sound of his footsteps and breathing. He was outside the city now, in a small suburb, running along an old road between a housing development and the woods behind it. Dogs barked every now and again as he passed, confused by his scent, or rather, his lack thereof.

His boot caught in a gopher hole and he pitched forward, his ankle twisting and snapping with a crunch that would have nauseated anyone else. He didn't stop any longer than he had to, even for this. It was painful at first, but within a few steps, he could feel himself healing, and he knew his ankle would be good as new by the time he arrived at the warehouse. Though relieved that the pain was gone, his healing speed worried him; he'd been growing so fast the last few years, in more ways than one, and he wished it would all slow down – just a little – so he could catch his breath, accept it.

But there could be no slowing down now.

He reached the edge of the development, zipping his windbreaker and looking out into the distance for the signal. It was dusk, and the sun was nearly set behind the hills, so it should have been visible in the fading light.

He caught sight of it off to his left. A red glow where there ought not be any glow at all. The run was easier this way, all downhill, and he reached the warehouse in a matter of minutes, shoving the steel door wide open and tossing his bounty on the ground in front of him.

"Here it is, you fucker!"

His voice echoed in the steel chamber. He was taken aback at the sound of it, of its depth. He sounded older, much older than he was, or ought to be, and a slow, cold panic crept outward from his core to his arms and legs, making them tremble. He ignored it as best he could.

"Hello!"

There was no answer. There never was, not outside of his dreams. If it hadn't been for them, he would have had no evidence that the entity existed at all.

"Is this enough?" he screamed. He was afraid to speak to the thing in such a manner while he slept, and the conspicuous emptiness and safety of the warehouse made the temptation to curse the entity irresistible. Not many things scared Timothy Brightwood – not ghosts, not vampires, not gods – but this thing…he had no idea what this thing was. Only that it was powerful. And angry. And desperate. And had nobody to turn to, nobody to help it. Except for him.

And it wouldn't take no for an answer.

"You leave me alone!" His voice was much louder than any human voice should be, but he was used to such things by now; in his other life, he hadn't been human, and there was no reason to assume he would become so as he got older. It was foolish, wishful thinking. "You stay the hell away from me!"

* * *

Dean kept his voice low. Sam was outside, but that didn't mean he wasn't listening.

"I'm telling you, Bobby, something's going on."

"When ain't something going on, Dean?"

"You know what I mean." He looked out the window again; Sam was banging on a soda machine. "Something serious. Wall serious. He's having dreams."

"You think he's _trying_ to remember?"

"I hope not, but you know how Sam is. He's doing the sullen glances, staring into space, the whole nine. He doesn't sleep much, and when he does, it ain't deep. I'm worried about him."

Bobby sighed. "Well, you'd be nuts not to be worried about him. I just wonder if there's anything you can do."

"That's not good enough, Bobby."

"We told him not to mess with the wall, all right? Hell, Death himself told him not to go poking the sleeping dragon. If the kid knows what's good for him-"

Dean tried not to raise his voice. "When does Sam ever do what's good for him? When do either of us?"

"Look, I get that you're worried about him, Dean. I do. But I don't know what to tell you here. He just got his soul back from hell. That ain't something you can fix up with a couple o' Tylenol. He's gonna have a few issues."

Dean ran a hand over his face. He knew it wasn't Bobby's fault he couldn't help Sam, but he couldn't help feeling resentful over the lack of advice. "I know, I know. I just…it's gonna blow up in our faces, Bobby. It always does."

"Yeah," Bobby said. "But on to our other problem. I got zip on your creature. Nothing in the lore fits."

"Nothing?"

"I suppose it could be a tame vamp, like that Lenore, but somehow I doubt it. Especially after what Sam got out of the girl. I never heard o' no vamp that wanted his dinner to fight him before he bled her dry from her wrists. And I've never heard of no creature passing out Percocet before a kill, neither."

Dean sighed. "Well, we're gonna talk to the families today, the ones we can find, anyway."

"They gonna wanna talk to some feds? In that neighborhood?"

"We're taking the insurance route," Dean said. "Promise of hard cash ought to loosen a few lips."

"Let me know what you find out," he said. "Cause I'm gonna need a lot more'n I got now if we're gonna solve this thing."

"Yeah, sure thing."

He snapped his cell closed, tossing onto Sam's bed. His own bed was covered in pages from a hundred different books, including their father's journal. Like Bobby, they had come up empty, despite searching all night. Dean breathed deep, looking out the window again. The soda machine had responded to Sam's fists, it seemed; he was drinking from a green can, his giant frame blocking most of the vending machine from view.

As frustrated as he was with Sam, he understood the seductive pull hell's memories could have on a guy. He had no desire to reflect on his time in the pit, but the memories were there all the same, and he was unable to turn away when they turned up for instant replay. Even after all this time – had it really only been three years? God, it felt like a lifetime – flashes of his trip downstairs invaded his dreams, sometimes frightening him badly enough to keep him up for a week or more. Some of the souls he had tortured hadn't broken under him, and it was the memories of them that haunted him the most – souls who had held the line, resisted his efforts to bend their will, where he had buckled under the strain. Sometimes Alistair appeared, laughing as he cut into some poor schmuck, burning with jealousy and rage at the fucker's strength and resilience.

Sam's hell had likely consisted of a different variety of torture, but Dean doubted it mattered – hell was hell, and the marks that left on you were there for good. Even with the wall in place, he knew it wouldn't keep Sam completely safe. Even if Sam never remembered another thing, never asked another question, his soul was scarred, damaged forever.

Dean lay backward, papers crunching under him. The kid was never gonna last through this. After the final seal adventure, Sam had been anal about atoning for wrongs he's done. There wasn't a snowball's chance Sam wouldn't do whatever was necessary to fix what he'd broken, probably breaking himself in the process. He hated to admit it – it burned him up to even think about it – but Bobby was right. The wall would hold, or it wouldn't. If and when it broke, Dean would be there to drag Sam through it. Hell, they'd stopped the fucking Apocalypse. They'd kick it in the ass like they had everything else that had ever come their way.

Perhaps if he repeated that to himself enough times, he'd believe it.

The motel door shrieked like a cornered badger when Sam opened it, and Dean sat up.

"We're gonna have to start carrying around WD-40."

Sam chuckled, and Dean felt his spirits rise. Just a little.

Sam surveyed the mess on the bed. "Still nothing, huh?"

"Four thousand lovely pounds of it," Dean said, slapping his thighs. "Ready to interview?"

Sam straightened his tie. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, nothing else we can do, right?"

"Nope."

"Who's first?"

"Thought we'd hit up Ella's neighbors first," Sam said. "They might have heard something."

"Think they'll open their traps for her insurance agents? No money in it for them."

Sam shrugged. "We could tell them we're lawyers, starting up a suit. Say the landlord's at fault somehow."

"I like the way you think, Sammy." Dean paused. "Sometimes."

* * *

When they stopped in front of Ella Thomas' duplex, Sam wondered how it was she hadn't been killed sooner.

Even during the day, the place could only be described as a shithole. Broken glass, holes in the walls, stripped roof, everything your mother warned you about. There was nobody present, at least that he could see. He hoped someone was home. The sooner they solved this case and moved on, the better.

They stopped at the apartment just below Ella's, a dilapidated thing with thin walls and a rusted wrought iron screen door with a busted hinge. Dean gestured at it, then looked up at Ella's doorway.

"Might have something to do with why this thing picked her and not these people," he said. "Iron."

Sam lifted his brows and nodded in agreement. For some reason, he felt better thinking Ella had been chosen at random. It shouldn't have, considering that they had no leads on the monster apart from its victims, but it did.

Sam looked for a doorbell or a ringer. Dean rolled his eyes and balled his fist, banging on the screen. It made no small racket, and soon enough a small woman came running.

"Stop all that noise!" she said. "Not y'all again. Come on in, then." She unlocked the screen and opened it. It screamed with rust and age and Dean winced, following Sam inside.

"WD-40, that's all I'm saying," he whispered.

"What is it y'all want, now?" Sam and Dean stood awkwardly in the living room as she turned her back on them and walked over to a small kitchenette, stirring something in a pot. "You already came through yesterday, scaring everyone half to death. Ain't we told you all there is to say?"

"We're from the law offices of Benson, Bailey, and Becks," Dean said. "Some of the tenants around here are taking up a suit against the landlord. Broken pipes, rats, dismal security, et cetera."

"Oh," she said. Her tone hadn't changed in the slightest. "Lawyers, huh? Even worse." She turned the dial until the eye of the stove caught again, then replaced the pot she had moved. "Well, it's about damn time. This place is about to fall in on itself."

Sam surveyed the room. She wasn't wrong; one corner of the ceiling was missing entirely, leaving the insulation and the rafters visible. There were rat traps in every corner, and a dismal green sofa probably hid even more. A cheap bookshelf held thousands of photos, in both black and white and color. The oldest one looked to be at least fifty years old; in it, the woman before them stood beside a man in a garden. Sam gestured at it, and Dean went over to take a closer look.

"So, it seems like you've lived here a long time, Mrs…?"

"Leonard," she said. She poured whatever was in the pot into a small bowl. "Dorothy. And I've lived here for fifty five years, ever since I got married." She smiled at Sam, her face dissolving into a network of lines. "This place used to be nice, real nice, you know?"

The small pile of white hair on her head stayed perfectly stationary as she walked slowly into the living room and sat down, making sure her soup didn't waste. Sam took it from her as it almost fell, and she smiled, handing it to him and taking it back once she was seated.

"You mind if I take a look around outside, ma'am?" Dean asked. "Wanna get a good survey of the building."

"You go right ahead," she said.

Sam sat down on a low moth eaten chair. "So you've lived here since you were first married?"

"Oh, yes," she said. Her bowl was steaming, and she blew on it slightly. "That was in '56. We came up from Georgia. Eugene got a position at one of the plants, and we moved on up here. My mama thought I was crazy, we'd always lived down south. But I couldn't stay, you know?"

Sam nodded. "Things were pretty nice, huh?"

"Oh yeah. Winters were just awful, though, I didn't think I would make it. We did, though. At least until the plants closed."

"That when things went south?"

"Yeah. Everyone left, and other people came in, those people who show up when everyone leaves, you know." She sighed. "Been pretty rough ever since. Especially this last year or so," she said.

"How do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. Not gangs, if that's what you're thinking, not round here. Just regular folk, fighting and killing. There's been six murders just on this block alone in the last few months." She took a sip of her soup.

"Really."

"Mmm hmm. One boy shot his daddy, only five years old. Don't know why; Dennis was a good man. One woman clawed out her sister's eyes, and in the middle of the street, too. People just seem so angry all of a sudden, even the babies." She chuckled sadly. "I swear, ever since that big storm in Chicago, with the mandatory evacuations and what all, things just went straight to hell around here."

Something sparked in Sam's memory, a small flash. Then it was gone again. "I heard a few people disappeared as well."

"Yeah, but it wouldn't surprise me if they all just left, you know? I wish I could."

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

She waved him off. "But this isn't what you came for, now is it? I've sat here, talking your ear off for nothing. Do you have questions about the building? I know everything there is to know."

Sam smiled, pulling out his note pad. "I do, actually. We're trying to get a feel for what structural problems you might be having. What sorts of noises have you heard, Mrs. Leonard? The place settling, the pipes groaning, cold spots, um… leaking sulfur, anything like that?"

"No, the place doesn't make much noise," she said. "It's mostly the rats and the freezing pipes and the holes in the walls that are the problem. Neighbors do make a goodly noise, though. All sorts of racket at all hours. No couth."

_Bingo_, Sam thought. "Lots of parties? Upstairs, maybe?"

"Oh no, Ella's a lovely little thing, quiet as a moth," she assured him. "Never made a sound, not even walking. Shame what happened to her, and so close to moving away, too."

"Ella was moving?"

"Oh yeah. Going away to college in Lansing. She was waiting on a scholarship, but she told me she went ahead with the loans, just to get out of here. I don't blame the girl at all."

"Did she say why?" Sam was careful to sound nonchalant. He leaned forward, making sure to maintain eye contact with her; doing so often made others more comfortable telling him the truth, and she might be reluctant to tell him anything about Ella's personal life.

Dorothy gestured at the window, shrugging. "Do you even have to ask? For a young girl like her, this place is hell on wheels. Every day men would bother her." Some of the light went out of her eyes. "I guess one of them finally made a move, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam said, "I guess."

There was a moment of silence, then Dorothy came back to herself, smiling again. "Was there anything else you wanted to know, baby?"

"No, I don't think so," he said, standing. "I've seen enough. We'll get back to you with more information. Soon."

"Oh, all right then," she said. She followed him to the door. "You have a nice day, now."

"You too, Mrs. Leonard." The door shrieked again as she closed it. "And thank you."

Sam stepped out into the gray light of the cloudy day, looking around for Dean. Sam didn't find him in the front of the place or around the side by the mailbox, so he went around to the other side, where he found a narrow and seedy-looking alley.

"Sam!"

He was beneath a flight of metal stairs at the back of the property. Sam strode over, wracking his brain for what he had almost remembered earlier. It was hovering in the middle of his mind again, dancing just out of his grasp. "What'd you find?"

"I got no frigging clue," Dean said. He knelt and pointed at a small space behind the web of a large spider. "Check that out."

Sam bent and looked closer, squinting. There was a circle about the size of the bottom of a coffee cup with markings inside of it. They started at the center with a creature's head, then letters continued outward in concentric circles. "Looks like some kind of sigil."

"Anochian, maybe?"

"No, I don't think so," Sam said. "Has a different feel."

"Great," Dean said, a large, sarcastic smile on his face. "New monster language."

Sam scowled and shot him a cutting look. "I don't think it's new," he said. "I'm pretty sure I've seen something like it before."

"Where?"

"I don't remember," Sam said, biting his lip. His thumb and his forefingers moved in circles against one another, as if balling up a piece of thread. He stood up, ambling away from Dean. "Damn it."

"Hey, hey," Dean said. "Don't sweat it. We'll figure this out." Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder.

"But I know where it's from, Dean, I can feel it. If I could just-"

"Cut it out, Sam." Dean circled him until they faced each other. "Keep your hands of the drywall, god damn it."

"But it's-"

"We'll take a picture of it." Dean enunciated his words very slowly, his loud tone stopping just short of a growl. "And show it to Bobby. Or Samuel. Or even Cas, if we have to. But you will not fuck with that wall, Sam. So help me God, if your head explodes because you just had to open Pandora's Box, I will personally see to it that your remains are fed to a clown."

Sam had to chuckle. "No, you won't."

Dean pocketed his hands, turning his back on Sam. "Try me."

Sam fell into step beside him as they headed back to the Impala. They both noted the dead silence and complete absence of animals or people. Sam shot Dean a pointed look, which Dean returned. They continued to the car, the lack of life raising the hairs on the back of Sam's neck.

Dean leaned against the roof on the driver's side, looking over the car at Sam. "So what'd Old Eunice Kennedy give you? Any cold spots? Noises? Haunted brooches from the Home Shopping Network?"

"Nothing like that," Sam said. He sighed, resting his hip against the door. "Just rats, shitty construction, stuff like that. Turns out that Ella was planning to move soon; the place was getting to be too much. She says Ella was a good neighbor. Quiet, came to visit often."

"Whole place seems pretty quiet to me."

"Yeah, but she said the other neighbors make a ton of noise, all day and night. Speaking of which…" Sam looked around.

"Maybe they took a break today, had a V8."

Sam snickered. He nodded at Dean. "Dr. Sexy's story about all the violence checks out, too. Dorothy says it's been crazy the last fifteen months or so, since that storm in Chicago, she said. One kid killed his dad, another women gouged someone's eyes out in the street. It's insane."

"Wait, wait, wait," Dean said. "Back up. The Chicago storm? Death's storm."

"Yeah," Sam said. "That storm."

"What the hell, man?"

"I don't know, Dean."

"Seriously, what the hell?"

"I don't know."

They stood there thinking for a moment longer, then Dean opened his door, the squeak echoing in the empty space of the street.

"What, no WD-40 cracks?"

"Baby doesn't need that crap," Dean said, getting in. "It's the blemishes that make her beautiful, Sam."

Sam took another look around, then got in, closing the door behind him.

* * *

**And so ends chapter two! Chapter three should be up in a few days. Thanks for reading, and don't forget to post a review!**


	3. Don't Freak Out, Dean

**Thanks for the reviews so far, everyone! I appreciate the support.**

* * *

Timothy Brightwood peeled off the stolen army fatigues and shoved them down the drainpipe. There was still blood on his arms and legs, but it didn't matter; nobody could see him if he didn't want them to.

He sat down on the sidewalk and pulled his knees to his chest, wincing as the wound on his thigh was pulled taut. He knew it was only a matter of time before the entity started demanding his own blood, but that didn't make a cut from a demon blade any less painful, did it?

At least it hadn't wanted very much – just enough to paint a sigil on the side of the barracks. When he'd first heard that, Timothy had nearly refused; the blood of thing like him used for a summoning could only mean bad things. The entity had sensed this however, and… increased his incentive to follow orders. So he'd gone through with it, broken into the base and painted the wall. And now…

But it didn't matter. It was done.

A dog barked in the yard of the house to his right. A motion light came on, and a man stepped onto the porch, looking around. Timothy held still, not wanting to disturb anything near him. He might be invisible, but things he could touch were not. When the man went back inside, he stood, jogging toward the main cross street.

It was getting late, and this part of Detroit was a nasty place after the sun was gone. It wouldn't get any better, either, he knew. Not with this thing loose in the world.

Once he had reached MLK Boulevard, he sat on a bus bench, resting his head against the metal backboard. His work for the entity took a lot of energy out of him, and he was often tired. The thing was getting stronger, demanding more of him, and soon he feared it would use him up, or kill him. Just a year ago he would have said that such a thing wasn't possible. And perhaps, a year ago, it wasn't.

But times had changed.

He thought of his parents, wherever they might be, and wondered how long they had spent looking for him. If they were even still alive. He could never go back and see them, not like this. They didn't know what he was, and wouldn't believe it was him, at any rate. The last time he had seen them, they hadn't even been awake. They probably thought some nut job had broken in and kidnapped him.

Which, he had to admit, wasn't really so far from the truth.

He rested on the bus bench a while longer, then set out for his apartment. It wasn't really his – he had bewitched some lawyer woman into letting him use it – but it was the closest thing to home he'd had since…well, since home. It was huge and beautifully furnished, on the nice side of town, and sort of reminded him of his old house, at least in spirit. It was comforting, if a bit extravagant for his tastes.

As he crossed a thoroughfare, a roaring chorus of raised voices and gunshots reached his ears, floating on the wind. He knew that if paused and listen closely, he hear low and horrible growling, and bones breaking.

So he didn't.

* * *

Dean turned the page of a giant book, dust rising off the pages and into his face as he did so. He was fairly certain that the paper was made of something other than wood. He tried not to think too hard about it.

"What did the other families tell ya?" Bobby pulled another book off a shelf, tossing it onto the table. It kicked up more dust, and Dean fanned the air. "Monster cover their funeral costs, too?"

"Nah." Dean took a drink of whiskey. "You see, that would leave a paper trail, which would make our job easier and more bearable. Can't have that."

"Any of 'em actually know anything?"

"Well, all the vics were taken at night, so there's that." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Four of 'em wouldn't open the door for us, even though we told them we were insurance mooks, and the other two had no info apart from what we already knew. One of 'em was from out of town – a guy – and his wife told me he liked to treat with the ladies of the night in our wholesome burg of Riverton. She says he left at nine, selling her some bullshit about poker night, and hasn't been seen since."

"Cops got anything?"

"Nada. These people's cell phones were disabled, their families haven't heard a word about 'em, no bodies, no monster leftovers, no license plate on the security video. This thing doesn't eat them, at least not where anyone can see it, it's not a shifter, not a vamp, not a pagan god…the fucker's a cypher."

Bobby looked down at the picture of the sigil from the wall of Ella's building. "We got this," he said.

Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, but what does it mean?"

"I dunno yet, but there's only a few sigils with animals in the center. One of them is used to call forth a deva."

"The shadow demon? Like the one that nearly made steak strips outta Dad and me and Sam?"

"That's the one."

Dean looked skeptical. "Devas are pretty messy eaters, Bobby. They don't bother with chopsticks. Or painkillers."

"I didn't say it was a deva," Bobby said, "it's just a possibility. Something called a Sunji is another one; some kind of monster centipede. There's also rakshasa, okami, and some others. The point is, these animal sigils, they're used to call forth monsters of the flesh eating variety from wherever the hell they lay their heads. Someone's gotta summon 'em."

Dean folded his hands on top of the book. "So we're looking for a witch?"

"Yeah, maybe. Probably. The spell work to call these things is pretty complicated, and most of them call for blood. A lot of it."

"Well that fits," Dean said, getting excited. "Whoever this broom rider is, he's been stealing blood by the gallon bucket. Maybe he's using it for the ritual."

Bobby gave a noncommittal shrug. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

He sighed. "Did you find any hex bags when you searched her place? And the apologies and the hospital business still bugs me. Why not just kill the vics? And the age doesn't make much sense either, Dean. The girl, Ella, she said the man who attacked her was young, like a teenager, right? Even if the asshole is using magic to keep the wrinkles away, he'd have to be older than that to have this kind of power. And the storm? People losing their marbles all over the place?"

"Coincidence?" He shrugged. "Maybe the witch is going through a divorce."

Bobby looked at him.

Dean sighed, leaning back in the chair. "Really know how to take the wind out of a guy's sails, don't you Bobby?"

"Hey, I spent all damn day going through these lore books, looking for that damn symbol. You're closer than you were yesterday. Save the crisis of faith spiel for the Winchester Gospel."

Dean gave Bobby a facetious smile, nodding. "So he's a human, whatever's summoning this thing. And he's sentimental, for whatever reason. Doesn't want the vics to feel pain or die, and needs a fuckton of blood. Let's start there."

"What, you think Edward Cullen is behind this?"

"I wish," Dean said. "I could gank that glittery fuck, no problem."

"Demon, maybe? Some poor sap fighting a possession?"

Dean tilted his bottle. "Could be."

"It's not a demon."

Dean hand flew to his gun. He stood and whirled in one move, knocking the chair he was sitting on to the floor.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean straightened, letting out a breath. "Jesus, Cas. What happened to the angel wings motif?"

"My apologies," he said.

"Yeah, well, give us a heads up next time, huh?"

"The creature you're seeking, it's not a demon. Or a witch."

Bobby pulled out a chair and sat down. "Then what the hell is it, then?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"It's hidden its true form from me," Cas said. He looked ashamed. "I can't see it."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Dean said, righting his chair. He tossed his shotgun onto the table.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I've looked. The war-"

"Yeah, yeah, spare me the battlefield play-by-play, Cas. We've heard."

"Raphael-"

"Could he be behind this?"

"No," Cas said. "It's not him."

Dean nodded, a cynical, toothless smile spreading over his lips. "So you don't know anything? Do you know anyone who might be able to help us? Angels? Demons? Miss Cleo?"

"I'm sorry," he said.

Dean chuckled, looking up at the ceiling. "You know, I have half a mind to summon Crowley, and-"

"Don't do that."

Dean shot Cas an annoyed glance, surprised by his tone. The last time Cas had spoken to him like that, Dean had ended up locked in the panic room with five broken ribs and a busted face.

"Come again?"

"It would be unwise to summon the demon Crowley."

Something passed over Cas's features. Dean blinked, trying to read the expression, but it was gone in a flash. Then he wondered whether he had seen anything at all.

"Don't I know it," Bobby said. He sighed. "Guess we're stuck with pageturnin'."

"Hasn't failed us yet," Dean muttered. "Hey, Cas, you think you could-"

But he was gone.

"Well, thanks for the 411," he called at the ceiling. "You're a regular Chloe Sullivan."

Bobby poured himself another three fingers of whiskey and shrugged. "Think he's more like Watson, myself. Got the coat and everything."

Dean scowled.

* * *

Sam rubbed his brow, fighting himself.

He had thought that they were just flashes of things that had happened in the pit. Stuff from behind the wall. Part of Lucifer's horror show.

But he wasn't so sure. Not anymore.

The dream had been vivid, even for him. There was a boy, a teenager. His leg was injured – Sam sensed the wound was self-inflicted – and he was painting a sigil on a wall. Not the same sigil that he and Dean had seen on Ella's building, but a similar one. The boy was painting it in his own blood.

And he had been afraid. Terrified, in fact. Just like Ella had said. He knew something bad was coming, very, and he feared for his survival. And someone else's, as well. Sam couldn't see who the other person was, but they were in danger, and this teenager was the only thing keeping them alive.

Sam had woken just after the sigil was completed, sweating and panting with a blinding headache. Dean had been asleep – Sam was sure he wasn't just pretending – and hadn't woken. Sam was grateful that he hadn't been yelling anything; god knew what Dean would do if he knew Sam was having visions again. Because that's what they were, he knew now. Visions, not nightmares. And not memories.

He leaned back against the seat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Dean and Bobby would begin to get suspicious if he was out too long; he had to get this over with before they started to worry. He had driven a few miles out of town to do it. He didn't want to risk either of them looking out the window and seeing him.

There was no point in stalling anymore. He knew what he would find before he looked, but he had to be sure.

He opened the door, walking around to the trunk.

The devil's traps were still carved into the trunk. He opened it, digging around in the boxes until he found it. It was inside a hex bag. He untied it, making sure he stayed under the cover of the trunk.

A small coin. The coin that had been planted on Crowley the night they had…interviewed Brady.

The hellhound coin.

Sam had no idea if this one still worked – the hound that had followed them was dead, and there was no way to know whether another one would sense the coin and come after them.

He looked at the sigil on it. It was remarkably similar to the one carved into the wall of the apartment building, and identical to the one the boy had drawn in Sam's dream.

"Hellhounds," Sam breathed. He swallowed. "He's summoning hellhounds."

So what had the kid been summoning to Ella's house?

Sam slammed the trunk. So there it was. Demons. Again. He was having visions of people connected to demons. Young people. Scared people. People acting under demonic duress. Like the psychic children had been.

"No," he said aloud. "Not again."

He got back into the car, headed back to the motel.

* * *

The news was on low in the background, the voices of the anchors barely audible. Dean was shoving books into a satchel when Sam walked in, looking like someone kicked his dog. Or, in Sam's case, stole his laptop.

Dean froze, gooseflesh already rising. "What now?"

Sam swallowed, working his jaw. He had The Look, dewy eyes and all. Bobby saw it, too, and holstered his gun, walking over. "This oughtta be good."

"Sam." Dean sat on the corner of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. "What?"

He sighed, drawing up his eyebrows. "We have a problem, Dean."

Dean was silent, his expression cold.

"I think…" he collected himself. "I think I might know what the sigil means."

"Ah," Dean said, nodding. "That's not so bad. What else?"

"I, uh…I saw it in a dream. The sigil."

"A dream?" Bobby said. "Like a vision?"

Sam looked away and didn't reply.

"Oh!" Dean grinned and chuckled dangerously, gesturing wildly with his hands. "Visions! Cause those are always great news!"

"Dean, I-"

"So what did you see, Sammy?" He clapped. "Catch a glimpse of our mystery monster? Lucifer's vacation home? Huh? You find Jon Benet's body?"

"I didn't have a fucking vision on purpose, Dean!"

"Didn't you? You were scratching at that wall, Sam-"

"I was not!"

"And now you're getting satellite images from the fucking cage-"

"That's not-"

"-and Hell's gonna make a smoothie out of your beautiful mind."

"This has nothing to do with that!"

Dean snorted and held up a hand. "Spare me the bullshit." Dean rubbed his hands together. "Just tell us if you saw anything that could help us, Sam."

Sam was grinding his teeth, and Dean could feel rage pouring off him in waves. _Kid wasn't kidding when he said he had an anger problem, was he?_

"It's from the coin," Sam said carefully, struggling to keep his voice even. "The one that demon stuffed in Crowley's pocket when we had Brady in the trap, remember?"

"That hellhound catnip?" Bobby frowned. "_That_ was carved into the girl's wall?"

"Well, no, not exactly," Sam said. "The kid was painting that one on a wall, the one at Ella's place was similar, but it was-"

"Whoa, whoa, hold the fucking phone, psychic boy. What kid? What wall?"

Sam bit his lip and swore. "Dean, don't freak out-"

"About what?"

"I saw him. This kid. He was painting the sigil on a wall. The hellhound one."

"What kid?"

"I dunno. He was young. Sixteen, maybe."

"What did he look like?"

"I couldn't see him," Sam said. He avoided Dean's eye.

"Why not? In all your other weirdo visions you saw the people. What gives?"

"I…" Sam rolled his eyes. "I w_as _him. The kid. I mean, not literally, but I saw things from his point of view. Through his eyes."

"Could you tell where he is?" Bobby handed Dean a drink. He downed it like cold lemonade. "Landmarks, road signs, hell, the position of the stars?"

Sam shook his head. "No," he said. "Just the wall. And the Sigil."

"Mmm." Dean smiled with his lips, first at bobby, then at Sam. "Of course."

"Dean-"

"You said he was painting it," Dean said. "What color was the paint? Did you see the can? Brand, maybe?"

He hesitated. "He wasn't using paint."

Dean looked confused.

Sam waited.

"Blood?"

"Dean-"

"So you saw the monster, is what you're saying? Saw through our mystery-vamp's eyes?"

"He-"

"He's the one, Sam. He's the thing that's been disappearing all of these people. He's the one who bled Ella like a real California cow, and probably the others, too."

"I don't think he's behind this. Not really. Not like we're thinking-"

"Oh my fucking god." Dean stood, running a hand through his hair.

"I think he's being threatened, Dean. Whatever's behind this, whatever's telling him to do all of this stuff, it has something. Or someone. It's holding them hostage. I can feel it."

"Cause your vision feelings are so fucking reliable."

"He's scared, Dean! I think he needs our help."

"Or he's the monster, and is yanking your chain to get to us. You know, like every other monster we've ever met."

"This is different-"

"No, it's not!" Dean was yelling, but he didn't care. They weren't going down this road. Not again. "It isn't, Sam! It's the same thing, over and over again! How many times are you gonna fall for this, man? You know how this will end."

"If we could just-"

"You're not an idiot, Sam, so don't pretend to be."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, nodding in that way he did when he was trying keep things from coming to blows. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Dean paced slowly in front of the beds, massaging the back of his neck.

"Not that this hasn't been riveting," Bobby said. "But let's get back to the main course, here. Fact is, this thing just summoned some hellhounds, and god knows what to Riverton. We gotta suss out where this thing is hidin'. Stop him. Somehow."

"We don't even know what he is, Bobby." Dean stopped pacing, facing the door. "Or what he wants."

"He wants to stop, Dean. He wants to get away from the thing that's doing all this."

"Right."

Sam glared.

"Fuck you."

Dean moved in on Sam, ready to strike, when Bobby waved his hand.

"Hey, you two, cut the shit." He grabbed the remote, turning up the volume on the television. They watched in stunned silence as the reporter walked through the carnage, talking and gesturing and nodding compassionately.

"Well," Bobby said. "We wanted to know where the things was. I'd say this place is a good bet."

**Thanks for reading! Another chapter will be up within the next week. Leave a review!**


	4. You're Not Gonna Like This

It was going to kill him. Timothy could sense it.

It wasn't planning anything brutal, or physical. He didn't think he'd wake to hellhounds tearing into his legs or a demon cutting into his flesh, but he would die all the same, and not in his sleep. The knowledge was fleeting and barely there, but he had picked up on it in his most recent nightly encounter with the thing. It was gleeful, malevolent, and far too relaxed when it had previously been neurotic, full of rage.

And it teased him about Trystane.

The thing would let Trystane go – it had to, that was the deal, those were the rules – but there was something Timothy was missing, and he didn't like that. The thing spoke in generalities about sadness and charred bones and dead soul mates, and he couldn't be speaking of Trystane. So that meant _him._

Didn't it?

He lay on his back, looking at his reflection in the mirror above the bed. The woman who owned this apartment had installed quite a few…interesting additions. The ceiling mirror was the least of them. He wondered briefly where she was; he had told her to go somewhere safe and not to think of the apartment again. He hoped the glamor would hold. His others had, but with everything that had been happening lately, it wouldn't surprise him much if she turned up and shot him, thinking he was an intruder. He sighed, sitting up and licking the spoon of peanut butter on the saucer by the bed. It was the organic kind, expensive, and he'd eaten almost the whole jar.

A sense of calm had settled over him now that he knew that the entity planned to get rid of him. Before, he'd had a slim hope that he could satisfy the thing and get back to his old ways, but now that he knew it was out of the question, his way forward was obvious. The thing was sure to be furious when it learned what he'd done, but that was too bad. It frightened him, he would concede that much, but Timothy wasn't one to freeze into indecision. He didn't have much life experience – just two years ago he'd been a ten year old – but he was hardly an average Joe. In its vainglory, the entity seemed to have forgotten that.

He would remind it.

After it was done gloating and consuming the blood Timothy had delivered to it, it had given him a mission. One last thing, it said, and then it would be over. It wanted him to retrieve something, something precious, from a secret, well -guarded place. It was an interesting twist of fate, now that Timothy thought about it. Imagine, being sent by his tormentor to steal something from his potential saviors. Timothy had laughed when the thing told him what to do.

On the inside, of course.

He was confident he had reached Sam Winchester in his dreams – they no doubt knew exactly what had transpired at the army base. He could only hope they recognized the sigil and what it meant. It would make things much easier when he arrived if they already knew why he was coming.

It would also make it less likely that he would be killed on sight. The older one, Dean, was a bit trigger happy, but Sam would keep him at bay, Timothy knew. They were a team. Dean would listen to Sam. He had before. And now that Lucifer was gone, back in hell – somehow – they had no reason to fear Timothy.

Not _really._

* * *

Sam thought it best if he didn't say anything.

The silence was tense, pregnant. Bobby had stayed behind at the motel, using their new information to find some old information. It was raining, the droplets beating against the windshield of Bobby's pickup with an audible and unrelenting insistence, destroying their visibility even with the wipers on high. Dean was driving slower than usual, though whether that was because of the rain or his thoughts, Sam couldn't say.

They dressed before they left the motel, slipping into the distinctive gear of crime scene cleanup crewmen. They had acquired identification from a friend of Bobby's, some paranoid hacker who had limited the phone call to twenty eight seconds. Luckily, the local police and the FBI were both involved in processing the crime scene, and they wouldn't need military clearance to get onto the base. The hacker assured them that if they hurried, it was likely they wouldn't be asked to do much more than flash their badges, so chaotic was the scene.

He looked over at Dean, running his tongue over the backside of his teeth. He was sure the boy he had dreamed about was involved with this, and so was Dean. The thing was, he knew the kid was just a puppet, a hostage in his own right. He didn't want to be doing any of this. Someone had something on him, something big, and the kid was just trying to get a monkey off his back. A very powerful monkey, if Sam wasn't mistaken.

He could sense the thing's presence through the boy. It wasn't a demon, he knew – he sent a silent and thankful prayer to the universe for that – but it was something with a lot of mojo.

Maybe more than he or Dean could handle.

And it was familiar, somehow. The kid was, too. Sam couldn't begin to speculate how it was possible, but he would swear on a stack of bibles that they'd dealt with this whole situation before.

_Obviously not as well as we should have,_ he thought. He rested his head against the glass of the passenger window and sighed.

Dean's eyes were locked on the window in front of him, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the butt of his gun. His face was drawn and set, determined. Sam knew there'd be no stopping Dean from drawing whatever conclusions he would from the scene, visions or none. And he wouldn't stop to listen to Sam's protests about the kid's innocence, either. Now that he knew the boy had been there and had drawn the damn sigil, Dean wouldn't stop until there was a knife through the kid's heart and his blood was on the ground. The more the better.

_Can't blame him though, now can you?_

Sam wondered whether fate, the universe – whatever – was still trying to get back at him for starting the apocalypse. Or, hell, for stopping it. Hadn't his time in the cage been atonement enough? Hadn't walking the earth soulless been enough? Wasn't dealing with the guilt and the pain of knowing he'd hurt people – innocent people – without mercy, enough? Did he have to finally be right about something, something important, only to have Dean disbelieve him and kill another innocent, not to mention let an even worse monster escape unscathed, all because of Sam's sour history? His character flaws?

He risked another glance at Dean's face.

It did nothing to reassure him.

Sam closed his eyes, the rain beating against his temples through the glass. At least they would learn from the crime scene. Sam might even learn something that would help him prove that the kid wasn't their Big Bad. Or at least something to help him escape the clutches of whatever had him by the balls. Dean would want to kill him for it, but if he could help the kid escape, he would do it. He wouldn't let him die at their hands. No more innocents would die because of him. He wouldn't allow it. Wouldn't stand for it.

Couldn't take it.

"Three hundred and twenty seven, Sam." Dean looked askance at him, then back at the road, his jaw set. "That's how many people died here today. That's how many people your innocent kid sent to meet the man behind the curtain."

Sam didn't reply.

"Tight-lipped all of a sudden, huh?" He shifted gears, slowing down further as the rain came down harder, beating against their roof. He snorted derisively. "Figures."

"What you want me to say, Dean?" Sam said softly, his lips barely moving. "There was nothing we could have done to prevent this. Not a damned thing."

"I want you to say that you're in this with me," Dean said. "All the way."

"Of course, I-"

"No, no. Just listen." The bite was gone from his voice; now there was only exhaustion and iron resolve. "Just listen to me, Sam. And…and I really need for you to hear me." He paused. "I will _not_ do this again. Do you understand? I can't go through this…this _trust the monster_ and _just trust me_ and _I can feel it_ bullshit, okay?"

He stopped, as though he expected Sam to interrupt. When Sam remained silent, Dean continued.

"I know you, Sam. You did some stuff, and now you feel all guilty and you give people chances, benefits of the doubt, when you shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. Because where does it ever get us, Sammy? Where? Dead, in hell, or in deep shit, or both, or all three. No exceptions."

Sam wanted to say something, to prove that this time, it was different – it really was – but he didn't have what it would take to convince Dean. It was possible that nothing would. So he stayed quiet, and listened.

"So I'm asking you – begging you – not to get caught in this monster kid's web. You just got your soul back. It's fragile. It would be pretty easy for this thing to get inside your head and fuck you, Sam. It's already trying. It knows where your thin patches are – it's already convinced you that it's innocent and just made some bad decisions and needs you to save it. It's just a ten minute ride to the point where you'll want to help it do whatever it's doing. So let go of it, Sam. Let it all go. Because if you don't…"

Sam lifted his head from the window and met Dean's gaze, his expression flat.

"If you don't…I'll have to stop you. By any means necessary. And I mean that, Sam. I'm serious. The world can't take it anymore." He pursed his lips. "I can't take it."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, the car rolling along at thirty-five miles per hour. Then, he sighed, placing his head against the window. His hair rested against his cheek, blocking some of Dean from view.

"Yeah, Dean," he said. "Okay."

* * *

The guards took only cursory glances at their credentials. Their motions were rote and thoughtless, without feeling. At the third checkpoint, the exhausted-looking guard didn't even check the I.D. photos against Sam and Dean's faces; he simply waved them through. They went, silently, the rain having slowed to a drizzle.

There was blood – everywhere. They had already moved the bodies, it seemed; there were none out here. Dozens of people moved to and fro, carrying and dusting and mopping. Even so, the scene had an oddly empty feeling, as though something crucial was missing.

Sam looked around, surveying. "Bit of a mess, huh?"

"That's an understatement," Dean muttered. "Fucking bloodbath."

"The news said they just went nuts and shot each other," Sam said, "so what was the hellhound sigil for?"

"I dunno, but remember, everybody was Kung-Fu fighting in Ella's neighborhood before they got taken, too."

"Yeah," Sam said, "and she told me the man who broke in wanted her to fight him before he took her blood."

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I had forgotten about that, that's right. So this thing, whatever he is, he needs his victims to fight before he can take the blood?"

"Apparently," Sam said.

Dean sighed. "Fucking great."

"It's something new we can tell Bobby, though, right?" Sam offered. "I mean, it ought to narrow things down quite a bit."

"There's that, I guess." His brooding mood seemed to have broken, at least for the moment. "Okay. I'm gonna go have a chat with some of these forensic bottom feeders," he said. "You go take a look around. If you see anything – anything – that might tell us where this kid is…"

"I got it, Dean."

Dean gave him a once over, then turned and walked toward a group of men holding various types of kits. Once Dean was out of sight, Sam hurried toward the barracks, praying no one had fiddled around too much with the scene around the sigil.

There were three detectives and a military official standing nearby, speaking in hushed tones. Sam ambled past them, trying to make himself invisible.

It didn't work.

"Hey, hey there Goliath." One of the detectives took him by the arm. Sam stopped, looking at him innocently. "Where do you think you're going?"

"They told me to clean this," he said, in his best authority-scares-and-intimidates-me voice.

The military big-wig spoke. "Good. Get to it."

"With all due respect, sir, we need to-"

"You can't afford to pay all the respect I'm due," he snapped. "You and your fellow detectives have been allowed more latitude in this place than anyone has ever been given, including me. You've got your pictures, you've taken your samples, you've dusted for prints. This kid is gonna wash this blasphemous shit off the wall right now." He nodded at Sam. "Get to it, son."

He strode off, and the detectives followed him, shouting. Sam turned back to the wall.

The sigil was enormous, at least five feet in diameter. He glanced around, then pulled his digital camera out of his pocket, taking a few quick pictures. The creature in the center of this was clearly a dog, and the symbols around the side were identical to the one on the coin. He slipped it back into the pocket of the plastic suit, stepping closer to the thing. He closed his eyes, remembering the dream. He turned his head to the left and opened his eyes, sure what he was looking for would be gone, taken by the crime scene techs.

It was there, folded and stuffed between the siding and the wall, just like the kid had told him it would be.

Sam made sure he wasn't being watched, then reached for the paper. He set his mop against the wall, then knelt in a crevasse, out of sight of the crowds that roamed the barracks near this one. He opened the letter.

_Sam, _

_ If you've found this, then I've reached you. I won't bother writing more than I need to – the sigil beside you is used to summon hellhounds, and the one on Ella's wall summons nothing. It commanded me to call forth a deva to kill her, but I botched the symbol, then pled ignorance. It doesn't know as much as I do about summoning things, so it had no choice but to believe me. It was pissed, though. It's always mad no matter what. _

_ We've met before, Sam, and you saved me that day, from something I can't even articulate. I know you and Dean sent the devil away somehow. That was cool. Thanks for that, by the way. I like the world like this, and I don't think I would have been very happy in hell, or whatever he was planning to turn this place into._

_ I'm sorry about these army guys and those people in Riverton, but I had no choice. I had to, to save my brother. He's not my brother for real, but he's like my brother. We've been best friends since I last saw you, and he says he knows about you, too. He says he escaped from the place with the yellow-eyed demon and hid from him. The demons talked a lot about you, I guess, and he said if we ever needed help with anything we should call you. So I am._

_ It has him, Sam. I'm sorry, I don't know what the thing is, but it has Trystane and he says he'll kill him if I don't do what he says. I promised and we made a deal, but he's not a demon. He says he knows you, too, and he's going to get back at you for something. (You're really popular. It's like everyone knows you.) He wouldn't tell me what. But first, I'm supposed to steal something from you. If I don't he's gonna kill Trystane and probably me, too. I can't tell you what it is in this letter, because someone bad might get it._

_ I had to write this for you because it can see what I'm thinking and doing sometimes. That's why I didn't tell you in your dream – he can see me when I'm sleeping, and it was bad enough that I let you watch at all. I couldn't risk actually talking to you. He's powerful, this thing, but he's kind of stupid, too. He'll never think that I would write a letter on paper to you. I guess he has a small imagination._

_ Well, I don't know what you can do to help me and Trystane, but I just thought I'd try, because I don't know what to do. The monster has demons working for him, and they have Trystane locked away somewhere. I've tried calling for him and looking in his dreams, but I can't find him. _

_ I can't tell you who I really am in case Dean is reading this. He'll kill me if you're not there to stop him. But please help, Sam. Think of me in your dreams and I'll find you. If you're the one who contacts me, the thing can't see us. _

_ Well, I guess that's it,_

_ Timothy _

Sam exhaled, reading the letter again. The kid was a teenager, at least chronologically, but he was a lot younger than that, if this letter was any indication. He was smart, and had a large vocabulary, but the tone and the style of the letter told him that the kid was really young, perhaps ten or eleven. And who had they saved at that age, who knew about Lucifer and demons and the apocalypse?

Jesse.

Why was he a teenager? It had only been a year and a half since they'd thwarted the apocalypse – how could he have aged so much? But perhaps it was part of being the Antichrist; maybe when Lucifer rose, the boy and started getting older, faster, to be ready for the big event. It made a sort of intuitive sense to Sam.

But this just made things even worse. Who was controlling him, and to what end? It wasn't Lucifer – he was still in the cage, and the kid said the thing wasn't a demon, but had demon mooks. So what the hell was it? And what did it want with him and Dean?

Sam put his face in his hands. He hadn't planned on telling Dean what was in the letter or what the kid wanted, whoever he was. But he didn't have a choice. Not now. He didn't even want to think about what this could mean. If Lucifer managed to escape the cage – again – things would go from sugar to shit with a speed that would leave the world's head spinning as they drowned in lakes of fire and blood.

And now there was someone else – this Trystane, who was apparently one of the special children that Yellow Eyes had created. And he had escaped the Lord of the Flies debacle in the abandoned town where Sam had died, meaning he was pretty powerful. What could have him locked away anywhere?

Sam sat wracking his brain for a few more minutes, then shot to his feet. He left the mop where it was, his plastic suit rustling as he searched the place for Dean. He spotted him leaning against a wall, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows at a young woman with a clipboard. Sam gestured with his hands until Dean spotted him. Dean gave a signal, and Sam went to the lot to wait by the car. Dean arrived twenty minutes later.

"Well, the plot thickens," he said, setting the mop and bucket in the back of the pickup. "The bodies – gone. Not to the coroners, not to the hospital, not to a thriller video audition, but gone. Whatever's downing kegs of blood is also snatching cadavers." Dean looked bemused. "I'm actually kind of relieved to hear that. I mean, at least it's not such a mystery anymore – we've faced down just about every flesh-eater and blood drinker there is. Even if this is something new, we know we can kill it. It's just a matter of finding the fucker…"

He paused as he pulled open the driver door. "Well, you look like shit. What's eating you?" He smirked at the quip.

"I think you should sit down for this, Dean."

His smile faded. "You're about to rain on my parade, aren't you Sammy?" He climbed in, slamming the door. He leaned out the window. "What's the matter? Have another vision?"

Sam looked up at him, his face a mask of fear and worry. Dean settled slowly into his seat, his elbow resting on the door frame.

"Get in," he said. "Let's get it over with."

Sam climbed into the cab, looking over at his brother. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the explosion he knew was coming, once he'd delivered the bad news. In an odd way, he was looking forward to it; it was familiar, something Dean had been doing since they were children. After all they'd been through, he'd come to associate Dean's loud and curse-ridden reactions with problem solving and stability. When Dean got pissed, he got moving, and whatever was in their way had best watch out. Sam let the thought comfort him for a moment before he spoke.

"I know who the kid is, Dean," he said. "And you're really, really not going to like it."

* * *

**I hope everyone is enjoying the tale so far. I'm really having a good time with this fic, and I hope you are too! Leave a review, and tell me what you think!**


	5. That Old, Rugged Cross

"No, Sam."

"Dean-"

"No."

"He might be the only one who can help-"

"I said no!"

"Well, do you have another plan, then?" Sam twisted in his seat until he was facing Dean, his hand on the dashboard. They were racing along the highway, the miles flying by in the pitch darkness. It had been a day since they'd left the base in Michigan, and they were racing back to Bobby's to regroup. "What the hell are we going to do, Dean? This thing is powerful enough to hold the Antichrist hostage! And it has one of the children – you know, the demon blood children, remember them? This monster nabbed the one guy who was strong enough to get out of that town! I couldn't even do that, Dean, and I was Lucifer's fucking vessel!"

"God damn it, Sam, that's enough!"

"Well-"

"Haven't you learned your lesson yet?" Dean turned away from the road for a moment to glare at his brother. _It's Ruby all over again,_ he thought, _with a hell of a lot more power. _"Do you remember what happened the last time we had a run in with these apocalypse assistants, Sam? Do you?"

"You seemed pretty eager to work with Death, didn't you?"

"S-"

"It's not like he's a demon, Dean!" Sam sighed, trying to keep his cool; out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see his jaw working. _Maybe he'll take a swing at me, _Dean thought. _Then we could die in a crash and leave saving the damn world to someone else for a change. _"He listened to us before. He did the right thing then. Why not now?"

"He's the Antichrist, that's why!" Dean exhaled and closed his eyes, turning back to the road. "I know we wiggled out of that jam back then, but there's no telling what he's like now. Or what he'll do if he finds out about these alphas, or this Mother of All bitch, remember her? I'd imagine the damned Antichrist would do anything to have their kind of power. Plus his own. With Lucifer back in the cage, he's probably having a bit of a power outage."

"This thing, whatever it is, is one of the most powerful creatures we've ever faced. And we've faced it before. It told Jesse that it knew me, man." Sam's eyebrows wrinkled and met in the middle of his forehead, then softened. He leaned his head against the window and sighed, his hair covering his cheek. "I just…I don't know what we're going to do this time. Everything we've worked for, everything we just did could be undone by this…this thing. You're exhausted, man. You can't keep this up for much longer. I mean, first with the cage, then my soul…"

"Don't start that…" Dean fixed his eyes on the road ahead of him; the last thing in the world he wanted to talk about was that fucking cage and Sam's wall. _Another pile of crap to shovel._

"Dean…"

"Look," Dean said. _Maybe I can stall him long enough to think of something else._ "I'm not saying it's impossible that he might help us. But don't forget that Michael and Lucifer are still in that cage, Sam. This Antichrist kid might fool around and let them out. Maybe he even talks to Lucifer or Michael, who knows?"

Sam started to speak, but Dean held up his hand. "All I'm saying is, we should wait and see, okay? Let's just think about this, not to mention rig something up in case the kid goes Unabomber on our asses, all right? We don't need to be electrocuted by hand buzzers on top of all the other crap we have to deal with."

Sam wasn't happy, Dean could tell, but he thought Sam just might hold off. For a while, at least. It was something.

"Okay," Sam said. "You're right. We should come up with a plan."

"Thank you." They were quiet for a few minutes. "Hey, how would we find the kid, anyway? If Lucifer couldn't find him, how the hell are we gonna do it? Chuck, maybe?"

"I already called him," Sam said. He reclined the seat and folded his hands behind his head. "Can't reach him, not for a while now. You think they started publishing again?"

"Let's hope not," Dean muttered. "Don't want anyone reading about your little Psycho episode with Bobby. Might crack your adoring fanbase."

Sam couldn't help but smile, remembering previous fights they'd had in this car. "Jerk."

A small grin touched Dean's lips. "Bitch."

"We could talk to his parents. Maybe he contacted them after the whole apocalypse thing was over."

"Yeah, maybe." Dean doubted it, but Sam didn't need to know that. "Samuel and Co. could probably get their number for us. The Brady Bunch has had more years than we have to perfect their hacking skills."

"Or maybe Cas knows where he is," Sam offered. "I know he's busy right now, but he had enough time to stop in and tell you it wasn't a demon."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever. If it doesn't involve Raphael, good luck getting him to even listen to us."

"But he probably knows where Jesse's hiding. He's all 'Leader of Heaven' now, right? I mean, he could probably find anything."

He was right; Cas probably would know where the kid was. _God damn you, Sam. _"I'll talk to him," Dean said. "When we get back to Bobby's, you go see if you can get in touch with Samuel. You've got the whole family thing in common. See what you can dig up."

Sam winced. "He's your grandfather too, Dean."

"Yeah, you might want to tell him that."

"He just hasn't had time to trust you, that's all."

Dean chuckled. "He hasn't had time to trust _me_? I'm not the one who came back from the dead. If anyone needs time to get used to all this, it's me."

Sam nodded to his right, conceding the point. "Yeah, you're right, I guess. I'll see what he knows." He sighed, rubbing his cheek. "Let's pray it's more than we do."

* * *

"I don't like this."

Dean looked up from the Bible, bracing himself against the table with his hands. "Thanks, Bobby."

"What happened last time you tangoed with this kid?"

Sam sighed. "Well, he turned Cas into a Barbie, for one thing." He tossed an old, handwritten book of revelations onto the bed. "Exorcised a demon, seemed like he barely thought about it. Pinned us to the wall-"

Bobby waved at him. "Before that, idjit. That tooth fairy business."

"The kid stuff he believed in, it turned real." Dean turned a page. "The evil tooth fairy, the fifty K volt hand buzzer, the dude's face…it was like he believed things into reality."

"Yeah, but that was when Lucifer was dancing in the streets," Sam said. "Now that he's back downstairs, Jesse's not that powerful anymore."

Dean looked skeptical. "Says him."

"Says me-"

"All right, Rambo, pipe down," Bobby said. "Whether he's yanking your chain about this bigger, badder monster or he telling the truth, we got problems. Ain't nothing I ever heard of that can put so much as a limp in the Antichrist's walk, Lucifer or no Lucifer. And if he's working for someone, we gotta find out who it is. Fast."

"Yeah, I'm gonna go call Samuel, see what he's got. Might be there's some ancient family secret to…killing a demon spawn, or whatever."

"You know, why don't you head to the library in town," Dean said. "Dad and me found some decent lore books on demons there while you were at school. There might be some info in there about boy wonder. You can call Sammy the First while you're there."

Sam nodded, slipping into his shoes. "Right. Call me if lightning strikes."

Dean tipped him a two fingered salute. "Aye, aye, sir."

Sam shot him an irritated look before leaving.

He stood and peered out the window, waiting until Sam was out of sight before turning back to Bobby.

"You're not seriously buying all this crap about a Final Boss controlling the kid, are you?"

Bobby took a swig of beer. "I dunno, Dean," he said. "I'm not in this kid's fan club or anything, but your brother's got a point about our favorite angel being back in the pit. The kid's been on silent since the apocalypse, and now all of a sudden he's decided to have a temper tantrum? It's not too far-fetched to think something co-opted him."

"Yeah, but what, Bobby? I mean, who else even knows the kid exists? Lucifer couldn't even find him, remember?"

"Angels, maybe? Maybe Raphael's got something up his sleeve, using the kid for the war in heaven or something."

"But then why kill these randoms down here? How the hell is that gonna help in heaven?"

"I dunno, but if it's not demons who got him by the balls, there ain't too many others that can swing it."

"Speaking of angels," Dean said. "Cas? Where the hell are you, man? We got big problems down here. Really. Your kind of problems-"

"What is it, Dean?"

Dean whirled around, stumbling backward once he caught sight of Cas. He was drenched in blood, his trench coat sagging off his shoulders with the weight of it.

"Jesus, Cas," he said. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I'm at war." He looked away. "Things can get messy."

"Well, uh…" Dean walked around him, taking care not to touch him. "We got a lead on this monster. It's Jesse."

Cas didn't look as surprised as he would have expected. "Really. Perhaps that's why I could not perceive him before."

"You don't seem all that surprised." Bobby poured himself a finger of whiskey. "Kind of a big revelation, don't you think?"

"Well, it makes sense," Cas said, nodding. "The Antichrist would know every blood ritual there is. Especially those that call for many casualties."

"So it could just be him," Bobby said. "He wouldn't need help from anyone?"

Cas fixed his gaze on Bobby. "How do you mean?"

"Well, Sam has this theory that someone's got the kid under duress, making him do things. You think that's possible."

"Not likely," Cas said. "If Lucifer escaped the cage, then maybe, but not otherwise. Jesse is too powerful."

"Thank you," Dean said, a satisfied smile on his face. "I told Sam this was a crock. The kid just told him that to-"

"Sam has spoken with the beast?"

"Yeah, in one of his weirdo dream things, he-"

"He must stop at once," Cas said, taking several steps toward Dean. Dean backed away, making a face at all the blood. "The beast knows many tricks, and Sam…well, we know he's particularly vulnerable."

Dean swore. "God damn it. If this thing is after Sam, there's no telling what it's up to."

"You can kill him. You must do so as soon as possible, Dean. The longer you let it whisper into Sam's ear-"

"Whoa, whoa, what? How?" Bobby crossed his arms. "I ain't heard o' nothing that can kill the Antichrist. Not ever."

"It's one of heaven's weapons." Cas vanished for a moment, then reappeared with a piece of wood. "Here."

Dean took it, wiping the blood from Cas's fingers onto the hotel bedspread. "What the hell is this?"

"It's wood, from the cross. Jesus' cross."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, it's one of the only things that will work against him. It's been touched by the blood of Heaven's messiah, so-"

"And Jesse's is hell's messiah." Bobby nodded. "All right then, how-"

But Cas was gone.

"One day, I'm gonna tie a rope to his leg," Dean said. "Tie it to the bedpost."

Bobby gestured at the stake in Dean's hand. "You think that thing'll really work?"

"Don't see why not. Cas has never let us down before."

"Well, ain't this just as neat as a virgin's underwear drawer."

"What's with you?"

Bobby shrugged. "I dunno. Forget it. Let's get to figuring out how to summon this thing. Might take a while."

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Leave a review and let me know what you think.**


	6. I Dream of Jesse

**Thanks for all of the awesome comments from Chapter 5! Also, I have no idea whether Sioux Falls, SD has a city library or not. If they don't, pretend they do.**

* * *

Things were…shifting.

Intangible, but large and important things. Jesse could feel them while awake and in his dreams – people slipping into position, thoughts aligning in powerful and unexpected ways, the world dancing to an ominous tune, inaudible but omnipresent. It had occurred to him more than once to make a break for…anywhere, but there was nowhere to run, not now. It was too powerful, and he sensed that it hardly needed him anymore.

He had been quite sure before, that it was so strong he would have died for resisting it, but now he wondered whether he had been wrong, that it had all been a bluff. He hadn't come across another supernatural – apart from Trystane – since the demon that had tried to corrupt him the night Sam and Dean had come; perhaps he'd been intimidated without true cause. The idea pissed him off, but he had to admit it was possible. In his ignorance of the rules of such things, it might have used him to gain enough power to…do what it wanted to do.

As glad as he was to have reached Sam, part of him resented him for having separated him from his demonic lineage so soon in his life. Though things would certainly have turned out for the worse had they not, he was frustrated with his general ignorance of the supernatural world. Apart from Lucifer and the demons and a few flesh and blood monsters, Jesse knew next to nothing about magic. Everything he knew now had been taught to him by the entity, and he would bet the farm that most knowledge of importance was being withheld. All he could sense on his own were passing shadows.

He sighed, leaning against the balcony. There was a high wind coming off the lake, and he closed his eyes as it breezed past him, lifting his hair off his neck. It died down after a few moments, and he went back inside, shutting the glass door behind him and locking it.

He went upstairs, collapsing onto the bed. He thought of going out, maybe to see a movie, but he needed to stay inside, in case Sam called out for him. He really was Jesse's only hope. Without him, the entity's work would be planned and his plan would be worked. Without remorse.

* * *

The religious section of the Sioux Falls City Library was small and isolated, for which Sam was grateful. It wouldn't take long to search and there'd be nobody to look sideways at him for reading _Demons and Sex_ or _Blood Magic of the Ancient_.

He picked up a few probable contenders and headed to the farthest corner of the library, glancing around to ensure he wasn't followed. It was unlikely, but Jesse had said that the creature holding him and his friend knew who he and Dean were. He had to assume it could be watching him at any time, poised to strike.

He settled into an easy chair, opening the smallest of the books first. It would be a quick read, given all of the pictures and diagrams within, and it was important to finish as soon as possible. He would need at least an hour or two to talk to Jesse while he slept, and he still had to call Samuel.

He made quick work of the books, which predictably revealed nothing. It didn't surprise him and it wouldn't surprise Dean, either – Sam got the distinct impression that Dean had only wanted to get him out of the way while he did something. Probably talk to Cas.

It wouldn't matter, though. Cas couldn't find Jesse unless he wanted to be found, no more than demons could. Sam had reasoned that the creature could be neither – Jesse's powers might have been diminished, but Lucifer's location didn't change who he was or the trappings that came with it, including concealment. It was the one lucky break he'd been given, and Sam didn't intend to waste it.

He pulled out his phone, dialing Samuel's primary alias.

"What?"

"It's me, Sam."

"I know who it is."

"I have a problem."

"When don't you?"

"I'm serious."

Samuel paused.

"What's the long and short of it?"

"I've got a kid, he's being threatened by some kind of blood creature. The thing, it has a hostage, and it's making the kid in question do some things."

"What kinds of things?"

"Kidnappings. Summonings. Murders."

"How many murders we talking?"

Sam sighed, hoping the number wouldn't turn Samuel against helping him. "A few hundred. Mostly from an army base, but some civilians, too."

"The base thing? Up in Michigan? That was your kid?"

"It…It's hard to explain. Look, I need some help."

"I dunno about this, Sam-"

"Just…I'm not asking you to have him over for dinner. I'm just trying to get a lock on this thing, whatever it is. I was hoping you might have some ideas."

Samuel clicked. "All right. Lay it on me."

"It's bloodthirsty. I mean, like nothing we've ever seen before. This girl Ella, up in Michigan, she said the kid came in, told her to fight him, bled her like an animal. Then he apologized and dropped her off at the hospital."

There was a moment of silence. "Go on."

"It also disappeared a few people from the girl's neighborhood. There's been this random spike in violence, people doing all sort of crazy crap to each other. And then there's the base." Sam lowered his voice. "The thing made the kid draw a hellhound sigil on the barrack wall. I think…I think maybe the hell hounds came and started tearing into people, and then the soldiers started shooting to hit them, but couldn't see them, and ended up killing each other."

Sam listened as Samuel moved something around on his desk. "Anything unusual about the bodies?"

"Well…we don't know."

"You don't know? What is this, your first hunt?"

"The bodies are gone. All of them."

"_Hundreds_ of bodies are missing?"

"Yeah."

"You think it ate them all? How big can this thing be?"

"I don't know for sure, but I don't think so," Sam said. "It…feels wrong somehow. I think it just needs the blood, and just dumped the bodies. And it knows us, Samuel. It knows who me and Dean are. It says it wants something from us, something we stole."

"Like what?"

"I have no idea." Sam looked around again. "We're not exactly in the habit of keeping monster trophies."

Samuel sighed. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, Sam, but I have absolutely no idea what you might be dealing with."

"I've been hearing that a lot lately."

"Tell you what," Samuel said. "I got some friends in low places I can ask. I'll shop around, find you something, even if it's just the color of the thing's favorite shoes."

Sam couldn't help but smile. "Thanks."

"You're family, and a damned good hunter. I should be thanking you, as many times as you've saved our asses."

Sam chuckled. "That's the life though, right?"

"Don't I know it. Keep your phone on."

"Will do."

Sam hung up, releasing his breath in a rush. Samuel's efforts probably wouldn't pay off, but it felt good to have taken another step to solving this thing. He couldn't remember ever feeling so mystified by a case, not even when they were trying to find a way to kill the Devil. With the missing bodies and the kid-for-hire and his fighting with Dean, it was as if someone was deliberately throwing up roadblocks in their path, obscuring things.

The cheap upholstery on the chair was cold against his face as he rested his head against the back of the chair. He hoped he wouldn't have a hard time falling asleep here. He'd never been very good at falling asleep alone in open places, not with the way their dad had raised them. But what was the alternative? He had to contact Jesse, and it would be a stupid idea to try and get away with it when Dean was five feet away in the next bed. He couldn't keep his dreams to himself as it was, and the last thing he needed…

Sam opened his eyes, confused that he no longer seemed to be in the library. The chair he sat in now was much more comfortable, and expensive, than the one in the religious section. He was in a living room, richly furnished, and there was a fire going in the fireplace, even though it was summer.

Sam stood slowly, looking for signs of a trap. He tiptoed around the room, peeking behind the couch and love seat and beside the book cases, checking the fireplace for loose stones.

"Sam?"

He turned quickly, pressing his back to the wall beside the fireplace and reaching into his back pocket for his silver knife. Before him stood a boy of about sixteen, with dark hair and pale brown eyes. His complexion had darkened since Sam had last seen him and he was much bulkier.

"Jesse? Jesse Turner?"

"It's Timothy now." He leaned against the arm of the sofa. "It's good to finally meet you, Sam. Well, meet you _again_."

Sam lowered his knife, sliding it back into its pocket. "Likewise," Sam said.

Jesse stepped away from the couch and ambled across the living room, pausing to gaze at the fire. Sam couldn't help but note the boy's confidence and maturity, and his apparent lack of fear of Sam. He was quite different from the kid who had written the letter and left it hidden at the base, and Sam found he was suspicious of the kid against his will.

"Don't worry," Jesse said, not looking over at him. "Everyone feels that way about me. I'm…unnerving, I suppose. Wrong. But it comes with the territory. I am the Antichrist, after all."

"How did you-"

"Your dream," he said. "Your mind."

"You're reading my mind?"

"Don't worry." This time he did look up. "I won't touch the barrier, I promise. I can see why it's important."

Sam started to express surprise at Jesse's knowledge of this, then stopped. It would be redundant.

"You're older."

"I am." He picked up one of the fireplace tools and stoked the logs. "It started when Lucifer first rose, I think. I felt it. It wasn't so rapid then, of course, and it was mostly in my mind, but I could still feel it. This physical stuff, this only happened in the last year or so. I have no idea what it means. Trystane didn't, either."

Sam sensed a certain sadness in him, which hadn't been there before. It was subtle, but he really did care about this Trystane.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "Do you know where he might be?"

He smiled wanly. "If I did, I would never have bothered you, Sam."

"I didn't-"

"That's not why I needed to speak with you," Jesse continued. "It's coming after you and Dean. You have something it wants. Or needs."

"Like what?" Sam moved closer to him. "We don't even know what the hell this thing is-"

"Nor do I," Jesse said. "But you needed to know. I realize your brother doesn't trust me, and I understand, but it's crucial that you make him see that I'm telling the truth about this. Because…it's planning something. Something big."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Any idea what? I mean, we really are flying blind here, man."

"I have no concrete details, I'm sorry. I can only tell you what it's told me, what it's commanded me to do."

"At this point, I'll take whatever you've got."

"It needs blood, flesh, for something. The soldiers at that base – Sam, they're gone. It consumed them, and all the people from Riverton. Ella…she's dead as well."

"Wait-"

"At the base, I summoned hellhounds with my blood. They all came – all of them – and made quick work of the soldiers there. And now the entity controls them. I don't know how it's doing it or why it needed my blood specifically or why it needs Trystane, but I do know that when it first came to me in my dreams, it was weak. But it was furious. And it had a special rage, just for you. Your brother, too, but mostly you. He says you ruined his legacy."

"Have you ever-"

"I never saw him in person, I've only heard him in my dreams. In the beginning, I had to bring blood to a warehouse and leave it. But now…he can go and retrieve things himself. Somehow."

"Did-"

Jesse's hand shot to his chest and he crumpled to the ground. He breathed in giant gulps, his body folded in on itself. The air around him began to move, and the wind blew out the flames in the fireplace, soot blowing out into the living room. Jesse reached weakly for Sam, his fingers twitching on the carpet.

"Jesse!" Sam fell to the ground beside him, shaking Jesse's shoulders. "Jesse!"

"I don't have much time," he breathed, coughing. "Something's happ… I think it's got me, Sam. I…I have to give you something…"

"I'm not gonna let this thing kill you, all right Jesse?" Sam looked around the room, as though the entity would be there, lurking in a corner. "We'll-"

"2143 L-Lakeshore Circle…" Jesse coughed and a plume of black smoke escaped his throat. His face was contorted in pain, but he was still trying to speak. "Detroit…"

"What, Jesse, what's there?" Sam cradled his head. "C'mon, stay with me, man…"

Jesse blinked like a death echo, then flashed back into existence, his skin ashen. "H-Hurry, Sam…"

"Jesse!" His form flickered a few more times, then disappeared, leaving Sam in the room alone. He stood, dusting the soot off his arm, reeling…

…and someone was shaking him and yelling.

"You all right, son?" It was an old man, perhaps ninety. His face was a few inches away from Sam's. "Wake up!"

Sam jerked awake, jumping a second time when he saw how close the man was. He put a hand to his forehead, wiping away sweat, and took a few deep breaths.

"You were shrieking like a nun in a whorehouse, boy," the man said. "What's the matter with you?"

"That's a good question," Sam said. The man shot him another disdainful look and moved on, headed back toward the front of the library.

He collected himself. He had to get back to Detroit. The thing had Trystane in its clutches, and now it had Jesse, too. If it managed to use them against him and Dean…

Dean. Sam had to call him. Now that he had definitive proof that whatever they were hunting had taken Jesse hostage, Dean would have to believe Jesse wasn't behind everything. Sam pulled out his phone, fumbling it three times before he put a call through to Dean. It rang twelve times, then-

Beep. "Why, hello. You've reached Dean of House Winchester. I'm away from my desk right now, but if you leave your name and number, I'll be sure to return your call, if you're still alive to take it. If you're dead, you didn't call soon enough." Beep.

"Fuck," Sam said.

The Impala took three turns of the ignition to start, and by the time Sam turned into Bobby's, it was near sunset.

Dean was going to tear him a new one.

He parked and strode toward the door, slipping the keycard inside. He braced himself for the shit storm he knew was coming.

The room was empty.

"Dean?"

Sam fumbled for a light and found the wall switch, flipping it on. Many of the books and maps and papers were gone. Sam drew his gun silently, checking the bathroom and the closets and the basement for whatever had gotten to Dean and Bobby.

"Bobby?"

When he was sure the place was clean, he called Dean again, praying they had packed up to go out looking for him.

There was no answer.

* * *

A large rat darted between his shoes on its way to a trash heap. Castiel ambled toward their meeting place – an old refrigerator at the center of the dump. When he reached it, he looked around, scanning for the demon.

"Well, don't you look lovely?" Crowley appeared before him, all in black. "Blood really brings out your eyes."

"Have you located the creature?" Castiel asked, motionless.

"Not the type for foreplay, I see."

Castiel remained silent.

"Our boy's nice and fat and sitting pretty, all right?" He smiled. "Don't worry, love. I've got what you asked for. Now it's time for you to quit teasing and put out." Crowley looked around. "Where is our little Denzel?"

Castiel scowled, but a young man appeared beside him.

"Well, hello there." The young man took a step away from Crowley, who laughed. "No need to fret. I won't hurt you. Be a fool to screw with a guy who fucked Yellow Eyes, wouldn't it? How did you manage that little jailbreak, by the way?"

"Fuck you!"

"Already? Does nobody around here appreciate romance?"

"Where is the Beast, Crowley?" Castiel touched the young man's forehead. He crumpled to the ground.

"I dunno, angel." The demon took a step toward him, making sure to avoid a pile of rotten food. "You tell me."

Castiel looked confused.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Your boyfriend has him."

"Dean?"

"Mr. Universe himself."

"Where are they?"

"Don't ask me, he lives up your arse."

Castiel sighed. "This isn't good."

"Aww, don't cry." Crowley snapped his fingers; Trystane disappeared. "Might be a good thing."

"You think the Beast will be able to take it from them?"

Crowley shrugged. "The Moose does love a cute stray," he said.

"This had better work, Crowley," Castiel said.

"Or what? You'll smite me? Where you gonna get the key to the kingdom then, Cassie?"

Cas was gone.

"Good talk," Crowley called.

* * *

**Hope you liked this chapter! Comment!**


	7. This Means War

The kid was older than Dean had figured, and not just in body.

"You," Jesse said. "I was expecting someone else. It's good to see you, Dean."

He had regained enough strength to pull himself into a sitting position, but he was still pretty out of it; his eyes were unfocused and he twitched at random intervals. His clothes were torn to shreds and he was covered in bloody gashes. Dean reminded himself to file away the spells they'd used to summon him; it could come in seriously handy one day.

"Always glad to hear we've pleased our customers," Dean said. "I'll be sure to relay your message to upper management."

Jesse actually chuckled, and not in the demonic I'll-never-tell kind of way. It surprised Dean. He hadn't pictured the Antichrist laughing. _He was such a fucking nut as a kid, I'm surprised he's not in the loony bin. Especially without his mojo._

"That's funny," Jesse said. "I haven't laughed in a long time, Dean. Thank you for that."

Bobby shot Dean a look that he ignored. He wasn't going to entertain any of the kid's bullshit. Sam might have sympathy for the devil, but he wasn't Sam.

"You're an elusive little son of a bitch, you know that?" Dean pulled up a chair to the edge of the devil's trap and straddled it, resting his chin on the back. "I mean, not even the damn devil could find you."

Jesse shrugged. "Hiding is most of who I am," he said. "Just like hunting is most of who _you_ are."

Dean was amused. The little shit thought he was going to psych Dean out with a Hannibal Lecter routine. _I've tortured more people than you could ever dream, Benjamin Button. You don't know a damned thing about me. But I know all I need to know about you._

"I apprenticed under Alistair, you evil little shit," Dean said cheerfully. "I know all there is to know about crafty interrogation. Save the reverse psychology for the demons who'll show up to tear you apart once we throw your ass down the pit."

Jesse looked intrigued. Not exactly the reaction Dean was going for. "Do you think they'd tell me about my mother? My real mother, I mean, not the woman who was possessed." He was earnest, hopeful; he was sitting Indian style, hands folded in his lap like a second grader angling for a gold star. Dean could see why Sam believed the kid was an innocent; if Dean hadn't known who Jesse was, he'd have been tempted to buy him a balloon.

The whole age thing was wigging him out, too. It was like, one moment he was a fucking Yale student pontificating about the nature of man and the next he was a nine year old waiting for his mom to pick him up from school. Something told Dean he wasn't faking this; the thing really was curious about where the hell he'd come from. _Well let's just give him what he's asking for._

"Your mother was an evil bitch who rode an innocent woman for months and forced her to give birth to you. A monster, who was all set and ready to destroy the world."

"I didn't, though," Jesse said. "You and Sam, you came and told me I had a choice. And I chose not to follow them."

"Yeah, yeah, you're a nice monster, and you enjoy feta cheese and expensive wine and foreign films. We've heard that song before, champ, and it always ends on a brown note."

Jesse moved forward, quick as a cat, and slammed into an invisible wall. He fell back into the circle with a loud thud and a groan. Dean chuckled.

Jesse's lost child routine came to an abrupt end, and the look on his face shot cold water down Dean's back. He subconsciously went over the room, remembering where all of the hidden weapons were. _Cas was right about this kid,_ Dean thought, fighting to keep his expression neutral. _You do not want to be around him when he gets pissed._

"What the hell is this?" He rubbed his palm in a circle on his chest. "It hurts."

His voice was cold, dead. His face betrayed nothing, giving the impression he was as empty as a can of air inside.

"Devil's trap," Dean said. "Modified one, anyway. Added a few special symbols, just for you."

Jesse's expression stayed mostly the same, but Dean detected an undercurrent of confusion. That bothered him. _Cas said he'd know all there was to know about this stuff. So how the hell does he not know about devil's traps? Did he miss witchcraft day at Hell School?_

"How did you find me?" Jesse looked around, still massaging his chest. "It told me I would be safe from anyone who would look for me."

"Well, I think we know a few things you don't, Jesse, my man," Dean said. "See, your blood is special. Unique. Kind of like, I dunno, poisoned Kool-Aid. It has a signature, see, and we can find it." Dean grinned. "You're lo-jacked, buddy."

Jesse turned contemplative. "So my blood…it keeps me in the circle?"

It was odd, sitting there, explaining these concepts to a monster they were about to put down. Most of the others knew the rules of the game better than Dean did. His resolve began to slip a bit; he wondered if they ought to question him for longer than they had planned at first. _That's just what he wants, _another part of him said. _This thing is half demon, half human, half god knows what else. Manipulation is like breathing to him. Stay focused. _

"It keeps half of you here," Dean said carefully. "The other half – your human half – is held by a garden variety containment spell. You get two people, you say both summoning spells at once, voila – you got yourself a hell spawn in a circle on your living room floor." Dean smiled cruelly, like he could kill the kid no problem at any moment. He hoped Jesse bought it. "So don't step out of the circle, sweet thing. Or you and your Dark Passenger go your separate ways, and it's lights out for you."

Jesse nodded. "Very clever, Dean," he said. "I can see why you're such a good hunter."

Dean wasn't sure what to say to that; he'd never been genuinely complimented by anything they had in a monster trap. _Jesus, this kid is all over the place. I dunno whether to kill him or take him out to hustle pool. _

"Never mind that," Dean said. "We got you, that's what's important. And now it's confession time." Dean reached under his chair and picked up a plastic bottle of holy water. "What the hell is going on? What are you up to?"

Jesse sighed, laying on his back. "What do you want to know? I'll tell you everything. I have nothing to hide, not really."

"What happened at the base?"

"I called hellhounds with the sigil. I'm sure Sam told you about it. They came, they attacked a few people, then the rest of the soldiers shot each other."

"Why?"

"It told me to."

"What?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," Jesse snapped. Shivers wriggled down Dean's back again.

"Where are the bodies?"

"It…consumed them."

"All of them?"

"All of them. Ella as well, all those missing people in Riverton. Their souls, too, I think."

Bobby perked up. "Their souls? This thing is sucking down souls?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think so, yes. It seems to fit. It's trying to get stronger, more powerful. It's gearing up for something. Don't know what."

Dean blinked, struck by a memory. _Keep digging, _Death had said. _It's about the souls._

_Fuck me, _he thought.

Bobby pulled up a chair beside Dean. Dean started to speak, but Bobby beat him to it. "This thing, it talks to you. Did it say anything about Sam and Dean? Sam seems to think it's got a hard on for 'em."

"Yes," Jesse said. "I'm afraid so. It's furious with both of you, but mostly with Sam. It said he stole its legacy, ruined some opportunity for it. And it says you have something it wants."

"You wanna be a bit more specific, Carrie?"

Jesse turned his gaze slowly toward Dean. "Sam's right about you," he said. "You are a dick."

Dean frowned. "Sam said that?"

"He thinks it. Constantly."

Bobby stifled a chuckle. _Old drunk asshole, _Dean thought.

"So you can see inside Sam's melon, is that it?" Dean snorted dismissively. "Always glad to meet the guests in Sam's head. First with the visions and the psychic kids, and then with the wireless exorcisms and now you. Wonder who else lives in there?"

"And there's something else," Jesse said. Dean couldn't believe it, but his voice was breaking. "My friend. Trystane. He escaped Azazel's trap, the one that killed Sam. The thing, whatever it is, it has him."

"Fabulous," Dean said. "More freaks. And how do you know _him_?"

"We met by chance, in Australia." His voice faded to a low mumble. "He helped me. More than I can say. Helped me control myself, especially while Lucifer was still on Earth. He's so strong, the things he can do…I was worried when the thing first got to me, but after it took Trystane, I knew I had to get in contact with someone who could help. Anyone. Because anything powerful enough to take him…"

"Could do anything," Bobby finished.

Jesse nodded.

"Excuse us for a moment, Jesse," Dean said, standing. "Me and my co-pilot here need to have a private chat." He and Bobby made their way up the stairs of the abandoned house.

"Don't go anywhere," Dean called.

Bobby sat in a rusted metal chair; Dean leaned against an ancient wood-burning stove.

"Bobby…"

"I think Sam's right, Dean."

Dean opened his mouth.

"I know you don't want to hear it," Bobby said. "Lord knows, I know. But I believe him. I'm not saying the kid's not a grade A sociopath – I think he is, powers or not – but I don't think he's lying about this. It actually makes a lot of sense."

"How does any of this make sense?" Dean shrugged. "Nothing in the lore fits, you said so yourself. Any monster this powerful would have something written about it, but we found jack shit. Not even a footnote. That doesn't strike you as suspicious?"

"Well, maybe we just been asking the wrong questions, looking for the wrong thing. Or maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe this thing isn't following a script. If you two had a run-in with this thing before, could be that it wised up and changed strategy. Might be why the lore's so scant on details about this thing. It used to do something else, got caught, then changed."

"Monsters don't change, Bobby, you know that. They can't. There are rules. Especially for stuff like this. I mean – hellhound sigils? The fucking Antichrist as this thing's lap dog? And now with this souls bullshit?"

"Well, I dunno what else could be happening, here, boy. It's either this, or something so out there it's not recorded anywhere. But Vegas money's on modified monster."

Dean put his fingers to his temples, stroking them in slow circles. "So where do we start?"

"Well, now that you mention it…" Bobby pulled a folded up sheet of paper from a satchel on the floor. "The one thing we know for sure about this thing is that it loves a fight, right? In Riverton, you said there'd been overkill, for lack of a better term."

"Yeah? And?"

"It could be nothing-"

Dean shot him a pointed look.

"-but it's not just Detroit that seeing a spike. Most of the inner city areas of the continent have practically exploded. And I don't mean an extra slap fight or two. I mean guns, pipe bombs, grenades, hell, even spears. Gangs are having an all-out war, seemingly over nothing. People are going nuts out there – Michael Bay style."

"Why hasn't there been anything about all this on the news? Don't they usually milk the hell out of violent stories?"

"Inner city killers, inner city victims. Nobody cares, or thinks it's out of the ordinary. 'Cept us, of course."

"Yep, that's us," Dean said. "Friends to the friendless."

"So we're agreed then? The kid's not completely full of shit?"

"I guess. It's probably in his best interest to tell us the truth, too, you know? I mean, if something really is out to get him, and us, he obviously can't fight it on his own. We're his only hope of getting out of this alive."

Bobby nodded. "There's that."

Dean frowned and rubbed his temples a few more times. Something stank about this whole deal, but fuck if he knew what it was.

"Somethin' wrong?"

"Nah, just something Cas said. He said Jesse would know all there was to know about magic, demons, yadda yadda. But this kid…he might be lying about a lot of things, Bobby, but he's clueless about most of the shit that's going on here. So why would Cas tell us not to even listen to him speak?"

"I dunno," Bobby said. "Maybe he just assumed Jesse would know about all that. Hell, I thought he would, too, and I didn't need Cas to enlighten me, either."

"Yeah, you're right." Dean stepped away from the stove. "C'mon. Let's go let this dog off his leash. Pray he doesn't bite us."

"I got the trank in case he tries."

Bobby held up the bloody wood of the cross.

* * *

Sam snapped his phone shut and threw it onto the floor of the car he'd just stolen. He was racing along the highway, headed back toward Detroit, and had just ended his twelfth call to Dean's cell. Again it had gone to voicemail. Dean probably had it turned off and the stashed the battery so that Sam couldn't track him.

He bit his lip, trying to keep his feelings in check. Getting angry wouldn't help him find Dean, or Jesse, for that matter. He could scream at Dean for ditching him without a note later. Right now, he had to get to Jesse's place. There was something there he needed to see, and Sam got the feeling they were running out of time.

As he descended the off ramp, Sam was wondering whether he should call another hunter for backup when a bottle struck the driver's side window. The window glass cracked, but didn't break, and the bottle fell to the asphalt and shattered. Sam slammed on his brakes, craning his neck.

The man who tossed the bottle was huddled under the overpass, gazing fearfully at Sam and trying to take cover behind a sad little bush. He was terrified, Sam saw, and his sense of dread went into overdrive. He had seen that look before. It wasn't just generalized fear; it was a very specific look, and it was driving him absolutely insane not to be able to remember it. He had a feeling it was part of the key to everything. Something was happening, something big. He prayed he wasn't too late to stop the worst of it.

It was early morning, and as Sam passed through the outskirts and into the city, his hopes of stopping whatever hell had come to Detroit were dashed.

There were small nuisance fires in every other doorway, and many houses were destroyed entirely. Buildings were trashed and abandoned, and smoke rose from many a roof, casting a dirty film over the morning sky. A few of them looked bombed out, though Sam didn't understand how that could be – since when did inner city violence include bombs?

He didn't see another person until he reached the hospital where he and Dean had gone to visit Ella. He felt a pang of regret when he remembered the fact of her death – he had told her she would probably be safe, that monsters rarely came back twice. _This one did. And I don't think it's done yet._

Sam rolled past as slow as he dared. Thousands of people were crowded into the parking lot. Most appeared uninjured to Sam's eye, but a few were laid out on blankets. Doctors and nurses ran to and fro, carrying bags and blankets and silver poles on wheels. _Jesus_, Sam thought, turning onto a thoroughfare and heading north. _What's happening, and why haven't we heard about it?_

The address Jesse gave him was in a pretty upscale part of town. It was a penthouse apartment, and Sam had real trouble jimmying the lock on the door. He managed, though, and slipped inside, closing the door silently behind him.

Jesse was a pretty neat kid. This came as no surprise to Sam; he had an orderly mind, and it followed that this disposition would carry over into his waking life. The kitchen cabinets and drawers revealed nothing, and he continued into the bedroom. There was a mirror on the ceiling, and he chuckled in spite of himself as he imagined what Dean would say if he were there. His anger at Dean was beginning to give way to worry. Dean and Bobby had most likely gone after the thing without him – worried that he couldn't handle it – but what if they hadn't? What if it had gotten to them first?

He accelerated his search of the room, not bothering to put things back where he found them. He was about to give up and scour the bathroom when he caught sight of the corner of a small brown box. It was sticking out from under the bed, and Sam sat down and picked it up, opening it gently.

Inside, there was a note and a business card. He picked up the business card first, looking it over.

Trystane Phillips

Assistant Coach – JV Basketball

555-0165

Suite 1030A

Sam raised his eyebrows. This had to be the Trystane that had been taken; Jesse had wanted Sam to have this card for some reason. But Trystane's kidnapping probably didn't have much to do with his day job – it was almost guaranteed to somehow involve his time with Yellow Eyes. So why did Jesse leave him the card?

He pocketed the card and opened up the note, relieved to recognize Jesse's neat handwriting.

_Sam_,

_You're probably alone reading this, unfortunately. If you have to read this note, it means we can't talk in person, and that means we're closing in on whatever is happening. You're probably separated from Dean by now – I've heard through the grape vine that you two can never seem to stay on the same page or in the same place when things get down to the wire – but all is not lost. At least, I hope not._

_There's a business card in here, as I'm sure you've noticed. Trystane worked as a coach at a local high school for years before we met – he graduated from the same school, he tells me. The office – the one listed on the card – was his. He's hidden something in the wall, something he said you would recognize. He wouldn't tell me what it was or what it did; said I would be safer if I didn't know. He picked it up off someone who helped him escape Azazel's prison, a woman, I'm pretty sure. She owed him a favor, he said. I hope you and Dean can find some way to use it against this creature. If not, I don't know what we're going to do. Die, I suppose. _

_I'm really not very good at ending letters, so I'll just stop now._

_Cheers, _

_Jesse_

Sam had to smile. The kid really was creepy, in a young serial killer sort of way, but Sam liked him. He hoped Jesse survived this thing. If he did, it might mean Sam had a shot at making it through, too. The Mother of All, the alpha monsters. His wall. If the Antichrist could scratch out some semblance of stability, surely Sam could, too.

He shoved the letter in the pocket with the card and headed out. Once inside, he reached onto the floor of the car and picked up his phone, calling Dean again.

No answer.

He sighed, setting it into the center console. He couldn't go after this thing without Dean, but where was he? They were running short on time – Jesse's letter had confirmed it – but he had no idea where Dean and Bobby had gone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card, checking the school's address and heading in that direction. He had nowhere else to go; maybe this thing Trystane had held on to could be useful.

* * *

"How's it going over there, angel?"

The sound of the demon's voice grated on Castiel's ears. It was a constant reminder of the depths that he had been reduced to in this war against Raphael. He ignored Crowley as best he could, taking slow breaths as he waited to heal.

"I'll be fine," Castiel said. "I just need time."

Crowley lifted a brow at him, turning the page of a book. Trystane was laid out on the table in front of him, unconscious and surrounded by candles.

"Well, I hope you can get it up before sunrise." He lifted the book in the air. "We're on a bit of a timetable."

"I know that."

"Don't get testy with me. You're the one who came up with the idea."

Castiel shot him a look.

"Well, all right, that was me, but you suggested using this…this thing." He poured some of his blood into the bowl.

"If you know of another way to beat Raphael, Crowley, I command you to tell me what it is. Now."

Crowley smiled bitterly and cocked his head. "All in good time."

"You-"

"Ah, look. That's all the time we have for today." Crowley beckoned him. Castiel resented the gesture; it made him feel as though Crowley was the one controlling things. He didn't like that. "Think you can stand long enough to say a prayer with an old friend?"

Castiel appeared beside Crowley. "Let's get this over with."

"Yes, master," Crowley said. He handed Castiel a slip of paper. "On my count?"

* * *

King High School was in the heart of the Riverton district.

The buildings were gray and low and its windows were barred and shuttered. The parking lot was overgrown and cracked, and the fence that surrounded it gave the place an air of ominousness, as though it might lock behind you of its own accord, trapping you inside. Sam had been to a lot of haunted places, but few of them could get his back up the way this place was doing. He was on high alert as he cruised across the ancient asphalt toward the main building in the center.

It was darker than it should have been, Sam realized. The sun was rising, not setting, and the area ought to be bathed in early morning light. Instead, it was cast in deep and source-less shadow. It was cold as well; he tightened his jacket around him as he walked toward the door of the building.

Suddenly, he wished he had thought to stop for salt and something iron. _How was I supposed to know the place would be haunted? Jesse didn't mention anything. _He paused, calculating the time it would take to find an open store, get the supplies, pay, drive back…_Nah. I can handle it. I'll just be right in and out. _

They hadn't bothered with a deadbolt.

The creak of the door echoed off the bare walls and he paused, listening for signs of life. _Don't be a chicken shit_, he told himself. _Get in there and get the box out of the wall. Then find Dean. Things are winding down._

He read the office numbers, turning right toward Trystane's. The paint was peeling from the ceiling, and large sections were missing entirely; Sam could see the rafters and hear scurrying.

The hall took longer to walk down than Sam would have guessed from its length, but he didn't stop to ponder it; he had arrived at Trystane's office. It wasn't locked either, and he stepped inside, the door closing with a gentle click behind him.

It was a pretty large room, about twenty by forty feet, with six desks and computers. A tube light blinked in the ceiling, illuminating the center of the room and casting the corners in black shadow. He pulled his knife, holding it out in front of him in case something was hiding in one of the corners.

He started with the south wall, knocking for a hollow space, and finding none, continued around the room. He felt foolish when he arrived at the north wall beside Trystane's desk and saw a small door near the floor. He bent and tugged on the steel loop and it groaned open.

Inside, there was a small box. Sam would bet the Impala that there was a note inside.

_These notes are getting old, _he thought bitterly, pulling open the box. _When the hell am I going to meet these people face to face?_

Inside, he found a polished rock in the shape of a diamond. And, of course, a note.

_Trys-_

_You can't walk out or drive out or anything like that; he's got some disgusting little containment spell on the whole town – it took a minor miracle for me to sneak this in. There is one place you can go, though. But only briefly. You must come back right away. You're apt to get eaten if you don't. _

_Take this rock, bleed on it – or use the blood of one of the others, there ought to be enough lying around – and paint the sigil you see onto a wall. Then say the words. It'll open the portal. Go in, wait ten seconds, and come out again. You'll be on the opposite side of the globe from where you went in. I trust this is far enough from Yellow Eyes to get you a good head start on hiding. _

_You've got one shot at this, Trys. One. If you wait too long, things will come out with you that you want to stay in. And I won't be able to help you. You're lucky I'm telling you even this much. I really shouldn't. Don't screw it up._

_We're even, _

_Dr. Visyak_

So Trystane had escaped through a portal to somewhere, and he knew the spell to open it before Yellow Eyes got to him. _Huh._ It was probably one of the only things that would have worked. And Dr. Visyak…that name was familiar. Hadn't she been the woman who had given Dean the dragon blade? What did she have to do with this? And where did the portal lead?

He pocketed the note and sighed. "What the hell?"

"Now, now, Sam," a voice said, "you shouldn't curse."

Sam dropped the box and whirled to his feet, looking desperately for the source of the voice. _Shit, _he thought. _Shit, shit, shit._

A young man wearing an army dress uniform stepped out of one of the dark corners, his arms spread in a welcoming gesture. He was tall, almost as tall as Sam, and for a moment he thought it was Jake Talley. Then the man's face came into focus, and he saw that it was someone else.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

The man sighed, leaning against the corner of a desk, straightening his hat. "People used to respect this uniform, Sam," he said sadly. "In ancient times, warriors were considered the very heart of many societies. Of course, they were also often the first choice for sacrificial ceremonies, but that's neither here nor there." An apple materialized in his hand and he bit into it.

"I said, who are you?!"

"I'm like you, Sammy," he said. "One of those poor little children in the crib, Yellow Eyes standing over me, bleeding. Got away though, when he came back for me. More than you can say."

Breath flew out of Sam in a rush. "Trystane?"

"In the flesh."

"What…what are you doing here? Jesse, he's been worried about you. He called us to help look for you. What's going on? Where's the thing, the thing that kidnapped you?"

Trystane's face twisted in contempt, and he stood, marching toward Sam. "The thing?! Is this how you speak of someone like me? I was slicing throats when cavemen were hiding in their hovels, you piece of shit. I was there when Troy fell, when Persia marched on Greece, when the goddam A-Bomb fell. Who are you to call me a _thing_?"

Sam backed up until he hit the wall, his knife still held out before him. "Trystane…where is he? Where's Jesse?"

"Oh, Trystane's in here," it said, grinning. "What do you think Azazel took you to the town for? He was making vessels, you sniveling little roach. And lo and behold, one of his pets ran away. And a better vessel than Trystane would be hard to find these days, wouldn't it, Sam?" He chuckled. "I mean, apart from you, who else is there?"

"Tell me what you want," he said, looking around the room for a way out. "I'll give it to you. You just let him go."

It laughed, high and long, and the walls shook with the power of it. "Go? You misunderstand, Sam. Trystane is never going anywhere again. And neither are you."

_No salt, no iron, no devil's trap, nothing but a silver knife. Way to go, Sam. _He had a feeling he'd need more than a silver knife to beat this thing.

"I have something you want," Sam said. "I know you killed all those people because you needed them for sustenance. You're weak, washed up. From the last time we met. Remember that?" Sam hoped it would be enough to get the thing riled; he had no idea what this thing was, and he had to get word to Dean somehow, or he was as good as dead.

"Oh, I remember." It lifted its hand, and Sam rose from the floor, sliding up the wall toward the ceiling. It slammed his hand into the wall and he dropped the knife with a clatter. "I remember everything. And before we're done here, you're going to feel every ounce of pain I felt when you took it from me. Nearly destroyed me. It took me a while to find my way back, Winchester, but here I am. Because you can't get rid of me. Not ever."

It angled its fingers to the left, and Sam flew through the air and crashed onto one of the desks. He felt two of his ribs break and groaned, sliding to the floor. He tried to crawl away, but it caught him, flinging him through the air again. This time he reached the far wall, slamming into it back first and dropping to the floor. He landed on his head and fell to the side, coming to rest in a crumpled heap. The thing walked over, looking down at him.

"Winchester," it said, grabbing Sam by the throat and pinning him to the wall, "I'm going to ask you a question. And you're going to answer me truthfully." It tightened its grip and Sam's vision grayed, his head pounding. "All right?"

Sam gasped for breath, but managed a small nod.

"Good," it said, moving closer. It pushed Sam higher on the wall. "I'm glad we understand each other."

Trystane's face loomed in front of Sam's, going in and out of focus as Sam's consciousness waxed and waned.

"Now," it said, smiling gently, "what have you done with my ring?"

* * *

**I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, and that the reveal came as a surprise. Don't forget to leave a comment! Only three more chapters to go!**


	8. Wild Horseman

**We're almost there! You have to have watched all of season six to get this; if you haven't, it'll seem like I've pulled things out of my ass. **

**Only two more chapters after this one, and then I'll begin a new fic. Here's chapter eight!**

Samuel tossed the wraith to Crowley's two demons. They lifted her into the van, slamming the back doors behind her and headed around front, one getting in on each side of the vehicle.

"Well done, gran da," Crowley said, smiling cynically at Samuel. "She's high on the totem pole. You keep this up, I'll promote you to full time."

"Forget it," Samuel said. "I bring you creatures, you bring Mary back. That's the deal."

Crowley nodded sadly. "Shame," he said. "Great benefits package. I'd even throw in dental."

"Tempting, but I'll have to pass."

"Hmm." Crowley turned to leave. "Well, it's late. Better be off. Need my beauty sleep, you know-"

"One thing," Samuel said, grabbing him by the upper arm. Crowley looked down at his hand and then back up at him. Samuel released him. "Sam, he's hunting something."

Crowley lifted and eyebrow. "Bit of a hobby of his, wouldn't you say?"

"They can't get a lock on it. Wondered if you might have some info."

A cold smile spread across Crowley's face. "I might."

"This thing, it's swallowing blood like there's no tomorrow. Wants people to fight before it takes 'em. You ever hear of anything like that?"

Crowley pretended to wrack his brain. "I can think of one thing," he said. "Nasty bugger. You'll have quite the row on your hands. Best leave it be."

"I'll risk it."

"A horseman."

"A horseman?"

"Of the apocalypse. War, to be exact." The angel wouldn't be pleased that he's spilled the beans to Samuel, but he'd come round once he heard the rest of the plan; Crowley was sure of it. "He might need the blood for sustenance, till he gets his sea legs back. Then he can take in souls, and after that, well, sky's the limit. Sounds like someone let him and his steed out of the stable."

"Well, how do we stop him?"

"Sam and Dean have something of his. A ring," Crowley said. "He'll need it to get what he wants. Tell them to give it to him."

Samuel recoiled. "What?"

Crowley sighed impatiently. "The meat he's wearing, it's not strong enough to contain him for long. He thinks it is, for reasons I'm not prepared to discuss, but it isn't. He puts the ring on, vessel pops like virgin at a peep show."

Samuel was skeptical, but Crowley knew he'd do as he was told. _Good_, Crowley thought. _This horseman is getting above himself. Better cut him down before he becomes a real problem. And the angel will be glad to take the souls he's collected so far._

"Well," Crowley said. "Look at that. We've bonded."

Samuel sneered. "This is a little too convenient, Crowley."

Crowley shrugged, smiling. "Of course it is. But what's it to you? You needed information, I provided it. What's it matter where I got it?"

He fixed his gaze on the demon, not blinking. "You'd better be telling the truth."

Crowley feigned insult. "Would I_ lie_?"

Samuel rolled his eyes.

"Be gone," Crowley said. "Wouldn't want The Brothers Grimm to smell me on you."

Samuel gave him a lingering look and turned his back, heading for his car. When he was gone, Castiel appeared beside Crowley. He was in quite the snit, if Crowley did say so himself.

"Why did you tell him how to destroy the vessel?" Crowley winced at Castiel's gravelly voice. "We need War to gain strength, so that he might come to heaven and help me beat Raphael. We had a deal, Crowley."

"No," Crowley said. "Our deal states that I help you beat your big brother and we split the booty. Lucifer's equestrian friends were _not_ part of our deal." Crowley lit a cigarette and took a drag. "The horseman, he's getting a bit uppity, wouldn't you say? He's been holding out on us with the souls, Cas. He's got more than he's letting on. And I'd bet my naughty bits he wants to restart the apocalypse, the glory hound. Just like your dear brother. Can't have that, now can we?"

"How am I to beat Raphael without War's power and the souls he can bring us?!"

"We'll get to that-"

Castiel waved a hand and Crowley flew over the chain-link fence and onto the blacktop on the other side. He rolled onto his back, sighing. It was going to be more complicated than he'd imagined. He hadn't wanted to reveal everything to the angel yet, but it seemed he had little choice now, didn't it?

His demons stepped out of the van and approached Castiel, who smote them before they could even raise their hands.

_Why do I bother with them at all?_

"DO NOT PRESUME TO PLAY GAMES WITH ME, DEMON."

Crowley climbed to his feet, dusting off the back of his jacket. _Ever the drama queen._

"You know," he called across the lot, "your throat is going to be quite sore tomorrow."

Castiel started for him.

"All right, all right," he said, appearing behind Castiel and holding up his hands. "Let's all just count to three, and use our inside voices."

"I command you to tell me what you are up to. Right. Now."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Fine. Ken and G. I. Joe destroy the vessel, and I shove War somewhere tight and dark."

"Then what?"

"Purgatory. You heard of it?"

"What about it?"

"The souls in there, there are millions of them. We crack the lock, split them, and we win. You get Heaven, I get Hell, cookies and head for everyone."

"Do you know how to get inside?"

"Not yet," Crowley admitted, "but one of your handsome pets has just solved half of the equation. Now, we just need the spell to open it. That's what my little collection of creatures is for. One of them knows the code. And when we have it, the door to purgatory will open, easy as a bridesmaid's legs."

Castiel was still angry, but he could see the sense in Crowley's words. _Guess I have to be glad of small favors. These angels, walking around with sticks up the arses, the lot of them. Gonna be the death of me._

"I can go to Sam and Dean," Castiel said, nodding thoughtfully. "Tell them I made a mistake with Jesse. That they need only defeat War to put things right. They'll believe me."

"Yes, about Lucifer's A-Bomb," Crowley said. "What should we do with him?"

"He hasn't seen either of us. His powers are no threat to us. No harm need come to him."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Ever the choir boy."

"Sam and Dean will be suspicious if we change the rules and destroy everyone they've met in the last week. We need to be practical."

Crowley nodded. "True." He tossed the cigarette to the ground and stomped it. "So it's settled then. Nice chat, dearie, but I've got things to do." He offered Castiel his hand. "Call me when you've got the red rider?"

The angel vanished.

Crowley sighed. "One more thing."

Castiel reappeared. "What?"

"Might want to check on the Moose. War's got quite the grip on him."

"He was strictly forbidden to touch either of them!"

Crowley cocked his head. "Old rage dies hard, ducky. They stole his thunder, and his ring. I'd be in a bit of a snit as well."

Castiel disappeared.

"What, no goodbye?" he said to the sky. He looked back at the van. The wraith was knocking around in the back, making a god awful racket. His two demons were dead, their meat suits lying motionless on the ground. Crowley strode over their bodies and sat in the driver's seat, slamming the door. "Put a cork in it back there!"

He started the van. "I swear. You want anything done…"

* * *

When he arrived, Sam was unconscious and War stood over him.

"You were ordered to leave them be."

War turned slowly, a wide grin on his face. His hands slipped into the pockets of his uniform as he walked across the room toward Castiel, barely visible in the darkness. Castiel could sense him, though; his aura was unmistakable.

"You know," War said, "in a war, the general's the one who gives the orders."

Castiel moved carefully, his deliberate steps forming an Enochian pattern on the floor; he would have but one opportunity to do this, and it was of the utmost importance that War remained unaware of his intentions.

"This is not a war. Not for you." He rounded a table, ensuring that his line of steps remained unbroken. "The Apocalypse was ended, Horseman. You were summoned for another purpose. One you've betrayed."

"I am no gopher, designed to catch and deliver souls for angels and demons," he snapped. "I am a Horseman of the Apocalypse, Castiel, a divine manifestation of the blood and pain and power of conflict, of wrath. I've been here since the first life forms battled for space on the rocks of primordial shores. Every argument, every skirmish, every war – was building me up to one moment. And then it was taken from me." He scowled, touching his ring finger. "And for what? Because you and the others, you couldn't get your houses in order. Play your parts. And now you mean to use me to stop it again? Now that it's almost back on track?"

"Raphael must be stopped, Horseman," Castiel said. The symbol on the floor was nearly complete. "The Apocalypse should never have begun without God's permission."

"God's permission?" War's expression was flat. "I suppose you have God's permission to work with demons, to fight your brothers, eh, Castiel?"

"That's different…Raphael, he…he has to be stopped."

"I don't think so, Angel," War said, his smug smile returning. "I think he's the one trying to set things to rights. And I'll be doing whatever I can to help him along."

"Then I'm sorry." Castiel had stopped moving, and now stood on the outside of a large red circle composed of his shoeprints. War stood inside it. He'd been lucky; there had been just enough blood on his soles to complete the circle. "But I'll have to stop you."

War chuckled. "How will y-"

Castiel spoke as quickly as he could, his voice sub-audible. The spell was mercifully short and unspectacular – one moment, War stood in front of him, sneering, and the next, he was gone, transported into a trap that one of Castiel's lieutenants had designed for him. There were stronger spells he could have used, ones that would have incapacitated War for some time, but they were too risky; Sam might have regained consciousness and seen something.

He knelt, touching the outer ring of the symbol. It disappeared.

He looked back at Sam, who was still unconscious on the floor. He was injured, Castiel knew – his shoulder and throat were quite damaged. He started for Sam, then stopped, glancing at the opposite wall.

There was a chunk missing near the floor.

He walked over and knelt in front of it. There was a small box on the floor, and inside, a small rock shaped like a diamond. He turned over in his hand and checked for an inscription, but found none.

_This is what the demon meant,_ he thought, slipping into the pocket of his coat. _This must be one of the keys to purgatory._

But how would they open the door? This was only a stone; they needed spell to open the gateway, of this he was certain. Perhaps Crowley would come through. He had done so with War.

Cas appeared before Sam, hesitating before waking him.

Was he doing the right thing, working with Crowley?

His plan with the Horseman would have a regrettable ending, just as Crowley had warned him it would when Castiel had first come to him. The Horseman had gotten above himself, as Castiel should have expected. How had he not realized that War would do whatever was necessary to complete the Apocalypse? How could he have been so blind?

But the Purgatory plan would work. Castiel could feel it. They would get their souls. He _would k_ill Raphael.

And then?

What?

He did not know, but it made little difference. It had to be done.

There was no other way.

* * *

Sam took a gasping breath and swung on instinct, stumbling to his feet. He had been unconscious for god knew how long, and War might still be around, waiting for him to wake so he could be questioned again.

"Sam, it's all right," Cas said, touching his shoulder. Sam winced; it was dislocated. "It's me."

Sam scanned the room, confused at its emptiness. "Cas, it's War. He was here. The Horseman. He's after the ring. Dean doesn't know, and he and Bobby went after the thing. We have to-"

"I know, Sam." Cas sighed, looking down. "I told your brother that Jesse was responsible for these recent events. I was mistaken. We know now that War intimidated him into obedience."

"That's what I tried to tell Dean, but-"

"There's no time for that now," Cas said. He touched two fingers to Sam's head. Sam blinked and stood upright, testing his healed muscles. "We have to get to Jesse before War does. If he takes in Jesse's blood and soul-"

"S_oul_?"

"Yes, it's how he gains power. The last time War was on earth, he corrupted the townspeople so that he might take in their souls after they surrendered to his illusion. It wasn't just for show; for every soul War turns to his will, he gains power. Power he needed to carry out Lucifer's orders during the apocalypse. Of course, you and Dean stopped him. It's one of the reasons he's after you."

"But how are we going to stop him now? I mean, last time, me and Dean cut off his ring. But he's working without it now. How will we get rid of him?"

"There is a way," Cas said carefully. "It will seem counter intuitive at first, but it will work."

"What way?"

"I'll explain later. Right now, we have to get to the Beast. Before War gets a hold of him. Jesse's blood will make him too powerful to stop."

Sam frowned. "How will we find him? Do you know where he is? I thought he was hidden from everyone? And where's-"

Cas placed his palm on Sam's forehead. Sam's stomach dropped and his vision blurred, and then they were standing in the basement of an old building. Jesse lay in the center of a devil's trap, his eyes closed.

"Jesse!" Sam ran over to him, shaking him. Jesse awoke almost instantly.

"Sam?"

Sam chuckled with relief. "Yeah, man, it's me." Sam looked around for whoever had Jesse locked up down here. He was surprised to find that Cas had vanished as well. Jesse started to speak again and Sam put a finger to his lips, reaching into his pants for his silver knife. He had just remembered dropping it back at the school when Cas reappeared.

"Relax, Sam," he said. "It's only me."

"Well, then, who-"

"I did."

Dean stomped down the stairs, a brooding expression on his face. Bobby followed him, and they sat in two wooden chairs on the other side of the basement, facing Sam. Dean rested his elbows on his knees.

Sam looked from Bobby to Dean to Cas to Jesse to Dean.

"What in the blue fuck is going on here?"

"We were afraid your cheese was sliding off your cracker, kid," Bobby said with a shrug. "We needed a way to have a few words with triple six over here without you knowing about it."

"So you bailed on me with no word and kidnapped him behind my back? I thought you went after the thing! I was afraid you'd both been killed!"

"We were gonna call you when we were sure he was on the up and up. We just needed some time alone with him, that's all."

"What the hell-"

"Look, I'm sorry, man," Dean said, "but you're playing this game injured whether you want to own up to it or not. We went through a lot to get your soul back, Sam, and I'm not gonna sit around and twiddle my thumbs while it gets destroyed."

"You always pull this crap, Dean! You do whatever you want and then try and justify it with this "father knows best" shit! Well you were wrong! Jesse isn't behind any of this, and you've just been wasting time here!"

Dean got up, walking in Sam's direction. "Look, we don't know _what's_ going on, okay?"

"Actually, we do," Cas said, moving toward the center of the room. "We've identified the creature, Dean."

"We have?" Bobby joined them near the devil's trap.

"It's War," Sam said. "The Horseman."

"What?!"

"I know. That's what I said."

"I thought we were done with these sons of bitches!" Dean was irate, pacing in front of Jesse. "Cas, I thought you said there was no mega monster, that Jesse was pulling all the strings? What gives?"

"I never imagined War could return without Lucifer," Cas said, averting his eyes. "I had no idea it was him."

"Seems like a pretty big thing to miss!"

"You've changed things!" Dean took a step back. "Do you understand that? The rules, the prophecies, all of it – it's gone. There's a civil war happening in heaven, a power struggle in hell. Creatures are swelling their ranks on Earth. So I'm sorry if I wasn't able to predict all of the ramifications of stealing the Horsemen's rings and stopping the Apocalypse, Dean. But remember who it was that changed the rules!"

There was a moment of silence. Dean frowned at Cas. _A little hot under the collar, eh Cas? _He thought. _What's the story there? _

"It's okay, Cas," Sam said carefully. "Chill out."

Cas sighed, looking ashamed. "I'm sorry I lost my composure. But we have to move quickly. War will be here, and soon. He needs to consume Jesse, and then he'll be after his ring."

Dean swore, still eyeing Cas curiously. "I knew those damn things would come back to bite us."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell are we going to do? If War is this powerful without Jesse, what's he gonna do when he gets him?"

"Release Lucifer." Cas sighed. "Resume the Apocalypse, most likely."

"Naturally." Dean cast a distasteful glance at Jesse. "So what the hell are we gonna do with this thing?"

Sam frowned. "Dean."

"It's okay, Sam." Jesse stood. "Just let me out of this…circle thing."

"Devil's trap," Dean muttered, kneeling and scraping at the paint. When the line was broken, Jesse took a tentative step across, smiling when he didn't die.

"Funny," Sam said, "I didn't think a Devil's trap would work on someone like you."

"It's made special," Jesse said, fiddling with an old book from one of the basement shelves. "Dean did it. He's really very good at all this, you know."

Dean leaned in close to Sam. "It's so friggin' weird," he said. "He's been complimenting me all day and night. I feel like I should make him some sweet tea or something."

Sam chuckled.

"I don't like tea," Jesse said. Dean jumped; the kid was right beside him. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

"How the hell did you do that?"

He shrugged. "Comes with the territory."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Cas snapped. "But we have to get War's ring. It's the only way to defeat him."

Bobby looked confused. "We can use the ring to gank him? How?"

"If he puts the ring on now, it will kill him."

"How? And why's he gunning so hard for it, then? If it'll kill him, shouldn't he be high tailing it for border?"

"He's after Jesse," Cas continued. "If he kills and absorbs the Beast, his vessel will be fortified, and he'll be able to safely wear the ring."

Dean nodded. "So what's the plan? We hole up somewhere and use The Orphan here as bait or something?"

"Unfortunately, no," Cas said. "We'll have to go to where he is. Your reputation precedes you. He knows better than to come to us."

Sam put his hands in his pockets. "Great. So we can hide Jesse somewhere safe while we go after War-"

"No." Jesse snapped the book he was holding closed and tossed it. "I'm not hiding anywhere."

"Jesse, if he gets to you-"

"He held me hostage for months! He made me hurt people!"

"We can't risk-"

"I have to save Trystane!"

"Kid-"

"I'm not a fucking kid!"

Dean clicked his teeth. "Look, I hate to break it to ya, but Trystane probably won't-"

"No." Jesse appeared suddenly behind Sam. "I can save him."

"Cut that out," Dean said.

Jesse rolled his eyes. "I can. You need me."

Dean snorted. "We've been at this for a while, kid. We know what we're doing. We can take this mother out on our own. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

"No. We need him, Dean." Cas sighed. "War won't be alone when we find him. We'll need the Beast to help us get past his defenses."

Bobby pulled a flask from his pocket. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Hellhounds. Many."

"Fucking great," Dean said.

Sam leaned against a pillar. "So where do you think he is?"

"Detroit," Cas said. "Riverton."

"Why the hell did he pick Detroit, anyhow? What is it about that place that Host of Hell loves so much?"

"It's the place where Lucifer took possession of Sam," Cas explained. "It selection was fairly arbitrary, as these things go, but it's an important place now, and will be for some time to come." Cas glanced at Sam. "It can best be described as a kind of magnet."

Dean shook his head. "As if that place didn't have enough trouble as is."

"Well, no time to count daisies," Bobby said. "Let's get a move on. 'Fore anything else decides to pay the Motor City a visit."

"So is that it?" Sam said. "Anything else we should know about?"

Cas hesitated.

"What is it, Cas?"

"You mentioned that War took the bodies with him – that they were missing."

Dean set about loading the guns. "Yeah? And?"

Cas sighed. "I hope that I'm mistaken…but you should bring as many silver bullets and stakes as you have."


	9. One More Mile

The loud ringing started up suddenly in the silence, scaring the hell out of all of them. The Impala's windows amplified the sound as the waves bounced around the car, prompting a flurry of motion and a set of muttered curses.

Jesse sat up straight, his head moving in awkward jerky snaps as he sought the source of the noise; Dean nearly crossed the double yellow. Bobby simply scowled and rested his head back against the window as Sam searched his pockets, sighing when he finally dug out his cell.

"Jesus, Sam." Dean was facing forward again. "Next time, just set a gunshot as the ringtone, why don't you."

"Hello?"

Dean narrowed his eyes in the rearview mirror, but Sam ignored him.

"Hey, it's good to hear from you-"

Dean risked a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Who is it?"

Sam waved him off.

"Yeah, we know, Cas told us-"

"Hey." The car was drifting toward the center line again. Dean corrected and turned toward the back seat. "Who the hell is that?"

"We're on our way there now, so I don't think there's time-"

"It's your grandfather," Jesse said, yawning.

"Samuel?"

"No, idjit, your other grandfather."

"Yeah, Cas thinks he knows what's happened to the bodies. We could use the help, but we're about an hour out, and we'll be done by the time you get here."

"What the hell's he up to?" Dean muttered.

"He wants to come and help." Jesse listened in on the call, ignoring Sam's annoyed expression. "He knows about War and how to kill him."

"That's nobody," Sam said. "Just someone we brought along to help us. Did you find out anything else?"

Bobby stretched, his elbow pressing into Jesse's side.

"Ow!"

"Oh, quit your bitching," Bobby said. "You'll live."

"You know, you're not very considerate of others." Jesse moved toward Sam, who scoffed, sliding closer to his door and switching the phone to the opposite ear.

Dean joined an interstate. "How the hell did he find out about this before we did?"

"He's a hunter, too," Bobby said. "He ain't stupid. Probably has tons of contacts, with all those Campbells of his."

Dean cocked his head. "Yeah, right."

"All right, thanks. We'll call you if things get bad. See you tomorrow." Sam snapped the phone shut and repositioned himself in the seat, trying to uncramp his legs.

"Dammit, Dean, is Cas even coming back to the car? It'd be great if one of us could get into the front seat."

"What did he have to say?" Dean sped up, pulling into the fast lane.

Sam rolled his eyes, eyeing the empty space beside Dean. "He knows War's who we're hunting, and called to tell us the ring can kill him."

"And how'd he come across that little tidbit?"

"Didn't say. You think he heard about it from some demon he was exorcising? It's how Gordon found out about me."

"I think this whole business is fishier than a Gulf coast wharf," Dean said. "I mean, first nobody has any idea what the hell is going on, and now all of a sudden everyone and their grandpa's got the inside track?"

Sam scratched his jaw. "I dunno, man, Cas seems pretty sure. And why would Samuel lie to us about this? I mean, what would anyone have to gain by helping War?"

Dean thought for a moment, then nodded, changing lanes again. "Yeah, you're right, I guess. I just don't li-"

"You must stop at once!"

Dean swerved reflexively and jammed on the brakes. A tangle of hands shot forward as Sam, Jesse and Bobby braced themselves against the front seats. Dean swore and straightened the car out, rolling slowly onto the shoulder and squeaking to a stop, throwing the car into park.

"What have I told you about that, Cas? I didn't go through all this just to die in a fucking car crash because you don't know how to come quietly!"

"My apologies," Cas said, "but it's crucial that we stop here. We should walk into the city."

"What?" Sam leaned forward. "Why? We'll be wide open for miles."

"Because he won't expect it," Jesse said.

Dean turned around. "What?"

"He's been locked away, forcibly, for almost a year," Jesse said. "He was furious about it, the whole time I was with him. When he'd visit me in my dreams, he'd complain that his knowledge, his intuition had been destroyed by you two. I think that when you took his ring, you stole a vital part of him. I don't know exactly how it works, but it makes him overlook things."

"Like what?" Bobby shifted, elbowing Jesse again. Jesse didn't complain this time. "He have to keep his car keys on a chain around his neck, or something?"

"When he told me to draw the sigil on the barracks wall, he warned me not to contact anyone or tell them about what he was doing. He could see inside my mind, he could tell when I was lying. So I wrote Sam a physical letter instead – and he never even suspected that I'd do such a thing. And later, he reminded me that he would know if I tried to use magic to contact Sam, and that he could feel me if I tried to call out for Sam in my dreams. But I told Sam to contact _me_ instead, and War never knew that anything had happened. I'm certain that he still doesn't know for sure that I'm with you. He hasn't reached out to me in a dream since Dean trapped me."

"The ring focuses his power," Cas said. "It gives him the ultimate advantage in battle – the ability to see the conflict from all vantage points. Without it, he's just a general, commanding an army with the resources available to him. A very experienced one, to be sure, but one who is accustomed to having much more information than he currently has access to."

"So the asshole is used to peeking at everyone's cards, and now he has to play by the rules."

"Something like that." Cas glanced over his shoulder at Jesse. "He worked tirelessly to convince you of his omniscience. He hoped that by frightening you into compliance, his inability to enforce his rules would go undetected."

"Pretty smart," Sam said.

"Yes," Jesse mused, tapping his fingers on his knee. "He's cunning. A strategist. And a damn good actor."

Sam chuckled and Jesse smiled briefly before turning contemplative again.

"So he knows we're rolling into town, but won't expect us to hoof it." Bobby sighed and reached under his seat, pulling out a map of the city. "So what's the smartest way into South Central?"

Sam looked surprised. "How long has that been under there?"

"Since you assumed the position for Lucifer."

Dean grinned.

"Looks like we should follow MLK south 'till we hit fiftieth. There's a lot of cover in case the hellhounds come out to play."

"Yeah, and lots of places for the Grateful Undead to lie in wait for us."

"You got a better plan, Nancy, I'm all ears."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know, I know."

"I'll scout the area. I should be able to pinpoint War's location and lead you there," Cas said. "After that, I'm afraid I won't be able to help you."

"Whoa, whoa, what?"

"With all of the souls War has taken in, he is now powerful enough to kill an angel. He will try if I get close enough."

"Great timing, Cas," Dean snapped, looking out his side window. "Always there when you need us, aren't you? Can always count on Cas."

"Dean, he'll-"

"It's okay, Cas," Sam said quietly. "Go on ahead. And thanks."

Cas remained for a moment and moved as if to say something more, then disappeared.

Sam sighed. "Dean…"

"Let's just get this over with." He got out and slammed the driver's door shut, walking down the highway. Sam got out and followed him, jogging to catch up.

"C'mon, man-"

"Not now-"

"We need our heads fully in this-"

"My head is always in it."

"What was that back there?"

Dean walked faster. "It was nothing. I was just disappointed, that's all. Is that allowed?"

"Sounded like more than that to me-"

"Then get your ears checked!" Dean shouted. He stopped and whirled to face Sam. "Look, Sam, I'm just fucking sick of this, okay? I thought we were done with the goddam apocalypse! We threw Lucifer back into hell, for Christ's sake! When is this gonna end? And none of this can be good for your wall, or have you forgotten about that? Wouldn't surprise me if you have, since you don't seem to care if it breaks."

"I-"

"And now we have this mother of all shit, and monsters in triplicate, and the fucking antichrist in the back seat, and now Cas is…"

They were silent for a moment.

"Cas is what, Dean?" Sam said. "What?"

Dean fumbled for the words and couldn't find them. "I don't know!" He threw his hands in the air. "I don't know. But I don't like it, all right?"

Sam nodded. "All right," he said. "Fine. But right now, we have to do _this_. We can't let War screw up everything we've worked for. We can figure out the other stuff later. But let's just…" He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, relieved when Dean didn't shirk from it. "Let's just focus on this, here, now. If we live through this, the other stuff will still be there tomorrow."

Dean shook his head and continued walking, a derisive smile on his face. "Whatever, man. Let's just go. Grab the stakes and the rings and Hell's messiah and let's get the fuck on."

* * *

There was a loud buzz, and hell's line moved forward, the man at the front making his way to the end again. Castiel watched him pass, wondering what transgressions had condemned him to hell. Since Raphael had taken control of the souls of heaven, Castiel's access to cosmic information was spotty at best. His helplessness frustrated and angered him, and he scanned the hall for the demon, more anxious than ever to move their plan forward. Three more of his lieutenants had been killed just this week, and if the souls from Purgatory were to be of any use, he would have to get to them soon.

"Home so soon, darling?" The demon appeared before him, looking smug. "Didn't expect you until morning."

"Everything is set."

Crowley looked impressed. "So Holmes and Watson are closing the case, eh?"

"They're on their way." Castiel looked down. "I'm expected back soon."

"Can't let War set his beady eyes on you." Crowley's eyes narrowed. "They aren't suspicious that you're bowing out early?"

"They think War can kill an angel. Dean is frustrated, but complacent."

He chuckled. "You're better at this than you'd like to admit to yourself. At this rate, you could tell them your cock was candy and they'd take turns trying to eat it."

Castiel frowned, confused. "They'd never believe that. It's ridiculous."

Crowley sighed.

"You're sure they'll kill him before he talks?" He dusted something from the lapel of his coat. "I'd hate to have to put the family pets down."

"Sam and Dean have experience fighting such creatures," Castiel said. "Any manipulation attempts on War's part will be summarily dismissed."

"You sure about that?" His tone was only half-mocking.

Castiel tugged on his tie, eyes on the ground.

"Mmm."

Cas looked up, his expression stony. "Make sure War's prison is ready, demon," he said. "If he breaks free, there will be hell to pay. And it won't involve any kind of line."

"Oh, looky. The angel made a joke-"

But he was gone.

"Been hanging around those American blokes too long, Cas." He gazed at the ceiling with a smile. "No manners."

* * *

They should have been wary of the bridge.

It came upon them from a crevasse between two chunks of concrete that didn't look large enough to hide a person. It was Sam's height, maybe taller, but less graceful; the thing shambled like a newborn colt with a Charlie horse. The gun's crack echoed in the night as Dean shot at it, missing by a mile and a half. _Shit, _he thought, trying to focus in the limited light. _Shouldn't have missed that. _Their supply of silver bullets was limited, and wasted rounds were luxuries they couldn't afford.

Dean was in front, with Bobby and Sam flanking him a few yards back. Jesse hovered in the triangle between them. Dean had insisted on it; he worried that whatever sentries War had posted would try and nab Jesse if they could. _Guess that was one thing I didn't need to worry about._

A bronze street light flickered over them, making it nearly impossible to track the thing's movements; it appeared to flicker in and out of existence, and every time the light blinked on it was closer. _These things move like death echoes,_ Dean thought. _Be nice if War had stocked the place with _them_._

Sam let off a round at it, then swore when the light came on again and it was still lurching toward them. There was another loud crack as Bobby put a bullet in the thing's arm, not slowing it down in the slightest.

"Shit!" he shouted. "I'm out!"

"Wait for it to get closer!" Jesse called. "You have to get a head or heart shot!"

Dean and Bobby fired simultaneously, both missing.

"What do you know about zombies, kid?"

"I watch TV!"

Dean started to reply, but suddenly the thing was on him, tackling him to the ground. He got it in the face with the butt of his gun and rolled away before it could get hold of him again. Sam was standing over him before he could turn back around.

"Dean! Left!"

Dean rolled harder to the left as Sam fired, blowing the soldier's corpse off its knees and over the edge of the bridge. The body hit the water below with a loud splash.

Bobby held out his hand. "Close call, son."

"Yeah," Dean said, shaken. He let Bobby pull him to his feet. "He snuck up on me. What the hell kind of mojo is powering these things anyway? Essence of _The Grudge_?"

"Whatever it is," Sam said, handing Dean the gun he'd dropped, "it's definitely working. We're probably gonna run into a lot more of these things before this show ends."

"Thanks, man." He chuckled. "I owe you a chicken dinner."

Sam grinned, the flickering light giving his face a sinister, funhouse mirror quality. "Make it a steak dinner. Chicken makes me gassy."

It was the fourth one they'd come across. Luckily they'd been lone scouts; they hadn't encountered any organized groups. They reminded Dean of Croats, only in uniform; it seemed War had decided to go all out with the theatrics and use the soldiers' bodies as sentries. They were roughed up pretty badly, too. The hellhounds hadn't wasted any time tearing them apart, and Dean was amazed that the one Sam had just put down had been able to walk. Most of his uniform was completely destroyed, not unlike his body, and one of his arms had dangled precariously throughout the fight.

Dean raised his own shotgun to shoulder height as they ran the rest of the way across the bridge and into the doorway of an abandoned office building. The light above the rotten wood covering the door frame flickered, though not as badly as the street light had; this one stayed on for about thirty seconds before blinking out. They faced outward with their backs to the doors, reloading and checking supply levels.

"Any more?"

Jesse scanned the landscape with impossible speed. "Not right here, but just a few streets over. There are a dozen, maybe more. I can't see any further than that."

"Where the hell is Cas?" Dean griped. "He supposed to be on recon. We need air support."

"Think War got to him?" Sam knelt to tie his shoe.

"Don't even say it. If this thing kills and absorbs Cas, we might as well perform last rites on ourselves."

Bobby rifled through the pack on the ground. "We only got two dozen more silvers, gang. Aim true."

"What the hell possessed us to do this at night?" Dean muttered, digging in another pack for stakes.

"It wouldn't have mattered any," Jesse said. "He's keeping it dark."

Dean tossed him a long, silver stake. "You're gonna need that soon. We're gonna run out of bullets, and we'll have to get up close and personal."

Jesse's eyes shone with excitement. "No problem," he said.

Dean side-eyed him and shot Sam an I-told-you-so look. Sam pretended not to see it.

"You got anything amazing up your sleeve, Jesse?" he asked.

"Nothing like before," he said, somewhat sadly, "but I can hold my own against these things."

"What about the hellhounds?" Dean slung one of the packs over his shoulder. "They'll probably put in an appearance. You got any demonic Beggin' Strips?"

"Don't need 'em," Jesse said with a cold smile.

"What does that mean?"

"You'll see."

"Let's hope not," Sam said, standing. "We ready to keep going?"

"Why postpone the inevitable?" Dean stepped out from under the building's shelter, checking the scene. "Everybody remember the plan?"

"How could we forget? We're gonna get our asses kicked."

Dean grinned. "Cheer up, Bobby. Gotta stay active in your golden years."

Sam turned away from them, shaking his head.

"He's gotta put the ring on first, Jesse, remember."

"I'm not a simpleton. I heard the instructions the first time."

"Hey, why don't you pipe down over there, Dark Prince." Dean pointed the business end of his gun at Jesse. "You do what we tell you, when we tell you, or Christ will enter your heart. Literally."

Jesse's expression vacillated between obstinate and confused.

Sam frowned. "What?"

"Never mind that," Bobby said. "Let's just get moving. Don't seem smart to keep our asses planted for too long."

They crept back out to the thoroughfare, their eyes open as wide as they would go. There were no sounds apart from insects in the trees and bushes and the distant call of police and rescue vehicles. The street lights over here were functional, for the moment at least; Dean had a sneaking suspicion that they would go at just the moment they most needed to see. _All the other power in the area is damaged or TKO'd. So why is does the only path we have to take have guiding lights leading us on?_

Sam took note of his brother's hesitancy and moved closer so they could talk without attracting unwanted attention. "The lights bugging you?"

Dean sighed. "You think he's settin' us up, too?"

"I'd have to be nuts to think anything else."

"So do we break?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't see what it would solve. He thinks we're driving-"

"Says Cas-"

"And Jesse," Sam reminded him.

Dean lifted his eyebrow. "Circumstantial evidence, Sammy. Speculation."

"It's what we got. I say we stick to the plan. He'll be surprised when we're on foot, he might be surprised when we show up with Jesse, and he'll be surprised by what happens when he puts the ring on."

"Yeah, kind of like Satan was surprised when we showed up with the rings last time."

Sam scowled.

"I still think walking in here is stupid."

"Exactly. It's ridiculous, and it doesn't make much strategic sense."

"You're not winning me over here, Sam."

"This guy lives for war; he _is_ battle. He'll expect us to think like soldiers. He won't expect us to walk in, get our asses kicked, and just hand over the ring in desperation. It'll be like Christmas morning for this guy. He wants revenge so bad for the ring and the apocalypse that he won't even stop to ask himself why it was so easy."

Dean had to admit that what he was saying made sense. Didn't make him like being so vulnerable, though. _Even if it is part of the plan_.

"Well…here goes nothin', I guess."

"We got this, Dean. It can't be any harder than throwing the devil back down the pit during the apocalypse, can it?"

"Got me there-"

"Shh!" Bobby lowered his gun.

They stopped, each facing a different direction and watching, listening. Dean didn't hear anything at first, but after a while, he picked up on a dull roar in the distance.

"What the hell is that?"

"The people of Riverton."

Cas stood beside Jesse, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Don't worry. There are none of those abominations within a half mile of where we are. I've cleared the way for you."

"'Bout time," Dean said, walking toward him. "Better late than never, I guess."

Cas was grave. "Things have gotten…more complicated."

Sam sighed. "How so?"

"War, he's taken control of the townspeople. Again."

"Like last time? What's he doing with them?"

"Making them fight to the death, in his name. He's reinforcing his power, preparing for your arrival. You will have to be convincing. If he suspects a ruse…"

"You ain't gotta tell us twice," Bobby muttered. "Should be able to skirt a few civvies without too much trouble, though."

"Until they see our ugly mugs," Dean pointed out. "Wonder what we'll look like to them? Demons? Vamps? Dick Cheneys?"

"I might be able to help with that." Jesse appeared in front of Dean, twirling his stake like a baton. He grinned. "I didn't lose all of my tricks, you know."

Sam smiled. "Knew you'd come in handy one day," he said, glancing over at Dean. "I never thought I'd say this, man, but thank God we didn't kill the Antichrist."

"Yeah," Dean said under his breath. "But is it God we should be thanking?"

Jesse tossed the stake into the air, catching it masterfully as it spun downward. Sam watched him a few times, and then tried it himself. The pole clattered loudly when it fell to the ground, and Bobby hit Sam's shoulder with the butt of his gun, telling him to keep it down if he wanted to stay alive. Dean chuckled inwardly; leave it to Sam to find some bright side, even while they were fighting zombies to reach the lair of a horseman of the apocalypse. _What the hell would I have done if I couldn't get his soul back? _Dean shook his head, pushing the thought away. _You did, _reminded himself. _And that's what's important. It'll hold up. It has to._

"Dean." Cas was speaking clearly enough, but the others didn't seem to hear; Jesse and Sam pretended to spar with the stakes while Bobby kept an eye out.

He turned back and forth between Cas and the others, confused. "What's with them?"

"Dean, listen to me, I can't do this for long. Jesse will try to stop you from giving War the ring once he realizes that Trystane will be killed along with him."

"What? How could he not know?"

"He doesn't, that's what's important." Cas was withholding something, Dean could tell, but there wasn't time to get into it now. "He thinks Trystane can be saved, and when he learns that you plan to kill him, he won't respond mildly."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Which means?"

Cas disappeared and reappeared, holding the chunk of wood. "You must not let War get to the Beast before the ring, Dean. No matter what."

He took it, turning it over in his hands, and swallowed. "Understood."

Cas seemed relieved.

"Can we? Save him, I mean, the other guy, Trystane. Is there any way?"

Cas' gaze was one of remarkable intensity, and Dean was reminded of their early times together, before Cas knew about personal space and social norms. It struck him how far they had come since those days, even though only a year and some change had passed. _God, how things have changed, _he thought with a touch of nostalgia.

And then the moment was broken, and whatever had been running though Cas' mind was finished. "No," he said, his expression solemn and convicted. "He must be destroyed. There is no way to save the vessel."

Dean nodded. "Never is, is there?"

"I'm sorry."

"Just rotten luck. Without that, we'd have no luck at all." Dean slipped the wooden stake inside of his jacket, making sure it was concealed. "We're getting' pretty close here. You gotta skidaddle yet?"

"I can go a bit farther with you," Cas said. His words had a gravitas the Dean found a bit excessive for the situation, but what were you gonna do? _This stuff in heaven must be worse than he's tellin' us. _"Another mile or so. But after that, I'm afraid our paths will have to diverge."

Dean raised his eyebrows, gesturing south. "Onward and forward," he said. "After you."

Sam was the first to notice them again, and he seemed to sense that something had happened while he wasn't looking. Dean gave him a quick _not-now_ shake of the head, and Sam shrugged and gave a noncommittal head toss.

They walked south, guns set to fire and stakes at the ready, and Dean was the only one to notice the last of the sirens fall silent.

* * *

**Thanks for sticking with this fic, everyone! The next chapter is the last one, with the final showdown with the Big Bad. Comments = love!**


	10. Two Rings, a Rock, and a Revelation

**We've arrived at the final chapter! Hope you've all enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!**

The place was gigantic, even from their vantage point.

King Boulevard rose over the landscape like a freeway while the actual freeway ran perpendicular beneath it. Both thoroughfares were empty. _Now_ _there's a good sign,_ Dean thought.

The building was a giant oval with a white roof. The parking lot was loaded with cars and lit up like a Christmas tree. With the pitch darkness outside the halo of light around the lot, the place was so bright it almost hurt Dean's eyes to look at. He stopped and looked through the – _What to call it? _Dean wondered, _a suicide barrier?_ – fence on the side of the street and gazed down at the landscape. The others stopped and did the same, Jesse pressing his face into it as if he could phase right through.

_Is he taller? _Dean compared their heights. Now that he really looked, Jesse seemed older, as well. _Slow down, kid. Or you'll be collecting Social Security before the fight even starts. _

"The Sports Arena?" Sam shook his head. "Guess he takes 'theatre' part of battle seriously."

"You have no idea," Cas said, sighing.

"I take it it's time for you to exit stage right?" Dean stepped away from the fence and checked the placement of his weapons one last time.

"Yes," Cas said, keeping his back to Dean. "And I'm sorry, Dean. Truly. You…you have no idea how regrettable I find tonight's events."

"Regrettable." Dean smirked, examining the end of a silver stake before shoving back into his bag. "You guys take P. R. classes up in heaven, Cas, or is bullshit just a specialty of yours?"

There was a soft fluttering, and then Cas was gone.

"Right."

He clapped twice, hard and loud.

"Well, let's go, ladies," he said bitterly. "Time to save the world. Again."

Bobby stepped up beside him. "We gotta worry about you doing something even stupider that what we're plannin' in there?"

Dean cut his eyes at him. "I'm fine. Just sick of feeling like a shmuck."

"Meaning?"

What _did_ he mean? There was no real reason for him to feel strung along. Hell, there was nobody with a motive to _string_ him along. So why did he feel so much like the frog carrying the scorpion across the river?

"Nothing." The street lights on their route began to flicker; the four of them looked up simultaneously. Dean cast an amused glance Bobby's way. "C'mon. We're pushing the boundaries of fashionably late. Looks like our host is tired of waiting."

* * *

There was nobody outside.

Thousands of cars were lined up in rows, not a single one parked outside the confines of the designated spaces. It took their eyes a while to adjust to the bright white glow of the parking lot floodlights – so much brighter than the amber ones that had lit their path to this point – but once they had, the conspicuous emptiness of the place was painfully apparent in the light's harsh relief. The only sign of life was the low roar of people inside the building, cheering.

They walked down the center aisle in a hard, horizontal line, their shadows shifting as they passed light pole after light pole.

"Well, this isn't creepy at all." Sam walked beside Dean, his enormous boots crunching loose pieces of asphalt beneath them. "What happened to the rest of the army? Cas can't have gotten all of them, can he?"

"They're inside," Jesse said quietly. His posture was resolute, determined, and he spoke with a confidence that wanted to be complete, but wasn't. _Voice is deeper, too, _Dean thought. "Perhaps he sensed the angel and pulled them back."

"You sound a little unsure about that, kid," Bobby said. "You got anything more solid?"

"I'm not psychic. I don't know everything. But he was inside my mind, and I know him in a way that few others do. He's worried, I think. He doesn't have me, he doesn't have the ring, and he knows you're coming. He hasn't forgotten how things went even when he _did_ have those things, and he's likely playing it safe." He was silent for a moment. "Can't say I blame him, though. You lot have a way of surprising people, getting the upper hand. Don't you?"

Dean kept his eyes fixed on their destination, careful not to look directly at Jesse. He could feel Jesse's attention, if not his gaze, and it made him extremely uncomfortable. Jesse sensed that he was being lied to about something, Dean was sure of it, and they really needed to close the curtains on this play before he had a chance to suss it out.

"It's a gift," Dean said, checking the inside of his jacket for the wooden stake.

"Well, as gifted as we may be, it's do or die time, Jesse. There's a mob of people in there waiting to tear us apart, and no amount of talent can even those odds." They had reached the end of the row and stopped, facing the doors. Sam readied one of his stakes, facing Jesse. "What do we do, man?"

"Tsk, tsk," War said from behind them. "Battle plans on enemy ground? _Very _poor form."

* * *

Castiel stood beside a green Mitsubishi, undetectable, watching.

It seemed things were going according to plan. War didn't know about the ring, and though he pretended otherwise, he hadn't expected the Beast to assist Sam and Dean in defeating him. Perhaps a forgivable oversight; he hadn't known why Jesse disappeared. War's warning against contacting the Winchesters was based solely on his experience with them and their reputations. A forgivable oversight, yes, but an egregious one.

_The demon was right all along_, the thought bitterly. _War is too volatile, too impulsive, to willful to be of any use gathering souls._ It hurt him to think it, that the demon saw things more clearly than he, but in this case, it could not be denied. Perhaps he ought to listen to the demon more. After all, he had much more experience than Castiel with these sorts of things; there hadn't been a power struggle in heaven since Lucifer was banished to hell. Certain viewpoints and complexities critical to battlefield success had faded over the years, especially for lower angels like himself.

But there would soon be no more need to think of battle tactics and the like. Soon, Raphael would be destroyed, the apocalypse would be prevented, and things would be set right.

He fingered the black stone in his pocket.

* * *

"Well, son of a bitch," Dean said, shaking his head. "Here I thought you were the warrior for the ages. Turns out you're Chris Brown in Navy dress."

"Hello, Dean," War fiddled with one of the patches on his uniform. He surveyed the group with a critical eye. "I suppose it's good that some things never change."

"Oh?"

"You're still relying on the skin of your teeth to save you. Look who you've brought to fight me – an old drunk, a second-class hell spawn, a drug addict with a paper wall holding all of hell at bay, a tortured, co-dependent wannabe Duke of Hazzard."

"A wannabe who kicked your ass so far downstairs you needed wings and an elevator to get topside, if memory serves." He held up his hand and wiggled his ring finger. "Guess you'll have to put your class ring on the other hand, eh?"

War's smug expression faltered, and a quiet rage showed on his face. "I made out all right in the end." He waved at them with both hands. He smirked. "Wish you could say the same, huh, Sam?"

"He's fine," Dean snapped.

War bent toward them slightly. "You stopped the apocalypse, Sammy. A significant victory, even for things like us. Put another archangel in hell, locked up that nasty devil, _and_ caught a ride out of the hot box. In a small contained space for centuries with two bitter enemies who wanted nothing more than to fight one another, and you survived. You were the ultimate prisoner of war, Sam, and you made it over the fence. But you paid a toll to cross the bridge over the river Kwai, no?" He tapped his temple. "And for what? Heaven's embroiled in civil war, earth is the same bitch she always was, and Hell…well, Hell's Hell. Tell me, Sam, in hindsight – was the juice worth the squeeze?"

"There is no _us,_" Sam said. "I'm nothing like you."

War grinned. The light overhead cast the planes of his face in and out of shadow as he talked. "But you were," he whispered. "Not too long ago, isn't that right? I mean, you were a rock star during my glory days, but the old you had nothing on the man I've been hearing about in recent times."

"What are you talking about?" Dean strode ahead of their line, pointing the end of a silver stake at War.

War looked past Dean and addressed Sam. "You should be flattered. I don't give compliments lightly. You've shown enormous promise as a warrior, as a killer." He waved halfheartedly at Dean. "Shame your worse half here stamped out your potential. And after the one who raised you worked so hard, brought you back new and improved…"

"What do you know about that?" Sam shifted uncomfortably, shooting a significant glance at Dean. "How could you know who raised me-"

"-and your grandfather?" War rolled his eyes. "Let's just say we're on…intimate terms."

"Enough," Jesse said authoritatively. "We're here to kill you, you bloodthirsty, glorified jockey."

"And you," he said. "The exorcist's wet dream. Should have figured you for a traitor. Past behavior, and all that."

"Yeah. You should have." Jesse twirled his stake.

"Hold the phone there, Chuck Norris," Dean said, holding a hand up to Jesse. "I have an idea."

"Oh? An original idea? From you?"

"Let's make ourselves a little wager. You'll like this."

War grinned. "Will I?"

Dean looked over at Sam. _Here goes nothing._

Sam breathed deep. _Go for it._

"We're gonna have ourselves a fight. A battle royale."

"Are we?"

"That is why you booked the arena, isn't it?" Dean gestured at the enormous building behind him. "As evil a son of a bitch as you are, you're a good sport. You appreciate a good, fair fight, am I right?"

Sam looked alarmed. "You can't be serious, Dean-"

"And I know we dicked you around before, but circumstances were different, right? I mean, we got no way to cheat this time. You're pretty powerful without your promise ring, and we…well, we're us. So how about it, horse face? One battle. One round. One winner. You win, you get the ring. We win, and you give up the vessel."

"Are you playing with a full deck, boy?" Bobby chimed in, right on time. "You ain't got a ring to cut off! How the hell are you planning to win?"

"Fair and square," Dean said.

"You can't do this!" Sam shouted, circling the group until he faced Dean. "He'll kill you! Are you forgetting all of the other stuff we have to do, Dean? The monsters that are multiplying exponentially, maybe? My soul? Whoever raised us from hell?"

"Move, Sam-"

"No!" He grabbed Dean by the jacket. "I won't let you do this again! Why are you always trying to sacrifice your life, man? Don't you-"

Sam flew away from him, landing on the windshield of a blue Sonata and shattering it.

"Enough chattering," War said. "You've got yourself a deal, Dean Winchester. One battle. No tricks. I win, I get the ring."

"That's the gist."

"And the Beast?"

"Once you got the ring, you can do what you want, can't you?"

War peered at him, unblinking. "Yes."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "And if you lose-"

"I won't," War snapped, glaring at Dean. "Not this time."

Dean cocked his head and held out his hand. "Shake on it?"

War took his hand and crushed it, smiling thinly. "Deal." He let go, backing away. "See you in the ring," he said. "Your friends here stay out of the way. No interference, or I kill them all. And…" he looked around, and Dean could swear he saw nervousness on War's face. "Where is it?"

"What?"

"The car," he snarled. "I won't be conned again."

"It's not here," Dean said. "It's back on the highway."

Sam screamed and Dean's head snapped in his direction. Sam was doubled over on the ground, groaning.

"Don't fuck with me, Winchester."

"It's true," Jesse asserted. "You know it is."

War looked back and forth between them and then released Sam, who gasped and coughed, rolling onto his back.

"How you gonna beat me without all your little toys?" War sneered.

Dean spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Got everything I need right here."

War stood still, contemplating them all again. "Inside. Ten minutes." He grinned. "Don't try and back out, boys. You made a deal."

War disappeared, and they all heard the low growling.

"Hellhounds," Jesse said. "Large ones. This had better work."

"Here's hopin', kid." Bobby raised his flask before drinking from it.

Dean ran over to Sam, helping him to his feet.

"That went better than we could have hoped for," Sam muttered.

Dean dusted glass off his back. "Yeah, right."

"I'm fine, Dean."

Dean pursed his lips. "C'mon. We better get inside before he comes out to see what we're up to."

They rejoined Bobby and Jesse. "Everyone know their places?"

"Yes." Jesse was solemn and stoic, and he was still focused on Dean, who did his best to ignore him. "Let's go."

Bobby shrugged and started forward, and they followed.

* * *

The arena was packed.

All twenty thousand seats appeared to be full. _That can't be right,_ Dean thought, turning his head as he scanned the room, taking it all in. _He can't be controlling all these people at once._

_Can he?_

He shot Sam a tentative look. Sam returned it, repositioning the pack on his shoulder.

"Well ain't this just lemonade on a Sunday afternoon," Bobby muttered.

"Don't worry," Jesse said, turning into one of the aisles. "I've brought the ice."

It seemed War had retired the undead soldiers; the twenty people in the front row were all alive. They would remain silent for close to a minute before erupting into loud cheers and screams, waving their arms wildly. Then they'd fall silent again, arms at their sides.

The four of them surveyed the crowd and realized that the entire arena was following a similar pattern.

"What, War got 'em on a sprinkler timer?" Dean waved his hand in front of the woman's face. She didn't respond.

"Something like that," Jesse said. "Lucky for us, they can be reprogrammed."

Dean eyed him suspiciously. "Thought you didn't know anything about all this stuff?"

"I know about this. It's part how I remain hidden. Even with the devil in hell, I give an order and mean it, people follow it."

"What, like anyone? Even me or Dean?"

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "I dunno. You two are exempt from most of the rules."

He touched the woman and her head snapped immediately in his direction.

"Clap," he said.

She did.

Jesse turned back to Dean, smirking.

Dean nodded. "Remind me never to seat jack you."

A voice exploded over the P. A. system before Jesse could reply, and they all winced as the microphone squealed. Then the interference settled down, and War spoke.

"Where are you, Dean?" He asked, mockingly. "Come out, come out. You can't hide, Winchester." He laughed, and Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "You don't want to keep our audience waiting, do you? This is the biggest match of their lives."

"And I thought Lucifer was bad about the evil gloating," Sam said.

"I'll see you in the ring, Dean. Don't make me come find you."

The crowd erupted, their collective roar deafening. Dean gestured at Sam. He pulled the ring out of his back pocket and handed it to Dean, who slipped it onto his own finger.

"That ought to piss him off!"

Sam squinted and moved closer.

"What?"

"I SAID, THAT OUGHT TO-"

The crowd fell immediately quiet and sat down in unison.

"-PISS HIM OFF!" Dean shouted in the stark silence.

They all turned and looking into the center of the arena, where War stood, shirtless, with a rag tied around his head.

"What's that?" His voice wasn't raised, but he projected well enough that they could hear him. "Share with the class, Dean, don't be shy."

"Nevermind," Dean said. He started for the opening that led into the arena, stopping to give Jesse, Bobby, and Sam a _here we go_ nod of the head.

He stepped into the ring that War had set up in the middle of the floor. It was an old school boxing ring, the kind you didn't see outside of educations films from the sixties.

"Boxing? A little low key for a guy like you, don't you think?"

"It's an ancient ritual, Dean. One of the oldest, in fact. You should respect it. Besides, any other fight would end too quickly," War said. "This is the only sort of fight you can win. Isn't that right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I can sting like a bee," Dean muttered. _Damn it, _he thought. _Thought he'd pick something with more weapons. This could last for hours. _"You don't mind if I keep my clothes on, do you? I'm not really into the gladiator look."

"Sure," War said. "And – just to show you what a good sport I am – you can keep your weapons. Not that they'll help you against me, mind you."

"How magnanimous of you." Dean looked around. "No gloves?"

War shook his head, a smile breading over his face.

Dean nodded. _Fabulous._

"Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

A referee appeared outside of the boxing ring, eyes black as night. War waved his hand and a bell rang.

* * *

"Always was quite the attention whore."

Castiel scowled, sparing Crowley a judgmental look.

"Look at all this." He gestured at the crowds behind them. "The crowds, the ring, hell, even the rails have been polished. You'd think he was hosting the queen."

Castiel didn't reply.

"Your boyfriend there is a persistent sod, I'll give you that." Crowley appraised Dean as he and War circled each other in the ring, eyes locked. "Never lets up, does he? I can see why you want so badly to get Raphael under wraps. Imagine if the poor dear went to all that trouble and it was for naught?"

"Of course," Crowley said, "there's also the issue of who's gonna rule the roost once Rafe's gone to meet his maker. No reason it couldn't be-"

"Must you speak?"

Crowley held up his hands in a gesture of mocking conciliation. "No offense meant, mate. I'm just covering all our bases here."

"I'm not doing this for glory, Demon," Castiel snapped. "Raphael will destroy the world. I have to stop him. That's all."

* * *

If he hadn't felt the fist connect with his jaw, he wouldn't have even known War had moved.

Dean flew backward into a corner pole, one of his knives slicing into the flesh of his side. He bounced onto the floor of the ring, reaching into his jacket for the offending weapon.

"Dean, Dean, Dean." War paced in front of him, his red shorts clashing harshly with his brown skin. "That's what happens when we don't play by the rules."

Dean groaned as he pulled the knife out of his side. It hadn't sunk in very deeply, but it still hurt like a mother. The only thing that hurt more was his face. _Fuck, _he thought, trying not to imagine how he'd look by the end of the fight.

"Yeah, because you're such a by-the-book monster. Your time in the sun has already passed, remember?"

War paused, thinking. "I don't suppose I can argue with that," he said.

Dean climbed to his feet and slipped his jacket off, tossing it to one side of the ring. Most of his weapons went with it, but they were causing more harm than help just now, and he wouldn't get away with using them at any rate; War was likely to drop the "fair and square" meme if Dean pulled a weapon on him.

War tagged him again, on the other side of his face this time, and as pain exploded in his cheek and eye, he felt a few teeth loosen.

War laughed. "But it doesn't matter." Dean rushed him and he stepped deftly to the side, tripping Dean in the process. Once he had fallen, War kicked him near where he'd been stabbed. "Because it's all coming full circle, don't you see?"

He kicked Dean again, tossing him onto his back. "You don't get to tear up the rule book, Winchester." He went to step on Dean's hand, but Dean rolled, looping his arm around one of the ropes and pulling himself to his feet.

"Oh no?" Dean spit, the blood staining the floor of the ring. "We sure burned your sorry ass, though, didn't we?"

War rushed Dean and picked him up by his midsection.

* * *

Sam winced as War body slammed his brother onto the floor of the ring.

"Hurry up, Jesse."

Jesse's eyes were closed and his hands were on the shoulders of one of War's captives. She was staring blankly at nothing, unblinking.

"Patient Zero wasn't exactly easy to find, Sam," he said. "Give me a break here."

Bobby grumbled as two people beside him started cheering and screaming again. "Patient Zero? He give 'em the Death's Head virus, or something?"

"It's like a wireless network," Jesse replied. "At least as far as I can tell. Trina here is like a router. She's the first one he took control of, and then he moved on to her acquaintances, and their acquaintances, until he had a grip on all the people here now. She's his connection to them."

"So what?" Sam turned away from the ring; it wasn't doing anything good for his nerves. They needed to focus. "You unplug her and everyone loses service?"

"In a nutshell."

Dean grunted loudly, and Sam heard his body hit the ground again. _Focus._ "Can you do it?"

"Yes. But I'll need a little more time."

"We don't have much more time, kid. Dean's only got so much ass to get kicked. Anything we can do to hurry this thing along?"

"I'm sorry." He frowned, concentrating. "But Dean will just have to hold him off. There's no other way."

* * *

"You think– "

War punched him in the shoulder.

"-you're so special-"

Dean's breath flew out of him as War caught him in the solar plexus.

"–that you can stop angels–"

Another tag to the face.

"–and demons–"

Dean's shirt fell to the floor in tatters.

"–and the End–"

Dean fell next, landing on his side.

"–without consequences–"

War's foot connected with Dean's knee.

"–without payment!"

Dean tried to crawl away on his belly. There seemed to be three of everything, and it was hard to tell which parts of him were touching the floor and which weren't. _Hurry up, Sam_, he thought vaguely, trying to stay conscious. _We need them out of his control. _He tried to will Sam to go faster through force of will – the kid _was_ psychic, right?

"You will pay for your arrogance–"

War stepped on his right hand.

"–your abominable transgressions–"

His left.

"–against nature–"

_How did he get over there?_

"–against _God_–"

Dean felt himself rising, and for a moment thought he was standing on his own.

"–against _me_!"

What little breath he could draw up to that point was cut off as War's hands clasped tightly around his throat. He wrestled and kicked, but War's grip didn't slip so much as a centimeter. He could feel himself losing it, and just before he would have gone dark, War dropped him. He collapsed, and felt the impact in every bone he'd broken.

War was hyperventilating and grinning like the chick from _The Craft_. He knelt in front of Dean.

"But first," he said, stroking Dean's cheek, "you're going to watch."

Dean screamed as War yanked the ring off of his broken finger, holding it up to the light.

* * *

"Jesse!"

"I've almost got it!"

"Almost ain't enough!" Bobby loaded a shotgun with regular bullets and handed it to Sam.

"Bobby, no!" Sam shook his head. "We can't! These people are innocent!"

"And they're gonna flay our hides if they get the chance! We don't have a choice, son!"

"We-"

"Got it!"

Jesse released the woman, who blinked, then looked around in confusion. "What the hell is going on?"

"Lady, you don't even wanna know."

Some of the crowd was still cheering, but the roar was dying rapidly as the people came to, looking questioningly at one another.

"Thank god," Sam sighed. "It worked."

Bobby dropped onto the bench again, setting his rifle on his lap and taking another drink.

"I'm getting too old for this bull," he said.

Jesse grinned and started to speak when Dean screamed again and there was another thud as he hit the floor.

_Shit. The fight's still happening. _Sam squinted, trying to see clearly. _Does Dean still have the ring?_

* * *

Dean didn't know how he was still conscious, but he wasn't going to think too hard about it. It was taking everything he had just to lay in place without screaming. War had stopped beating the shit out of him a while ago, it seemed like, and Dean opened his eyes a crack to see why.

War was looking around the arena, shouting something – Dean couldn't hear what over the ringing in his ears – and looking mighty pissed. _That's peachy, _a distant part of him thought. _Can't wait to feel his fists when he's really seeing red._

But there was something he was forgetting…something important. What was it?

Sam…Bobby…Jesse…the ring!

War had it, which meant…

_He should be dead_.

Why wasn't he?

_He doesn't have it on._

"Hey," Dean croaked. "Muhammad Ali." He grinned, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "That the best you got?"

War stormed over to him, incredulous. "What did you say?"

Dean managed a wheezing chuckle. "All talk…and no action." He pulled himself slowly into a sitting position, fighting a scream. "Thought you were gonna wear the ring and rule the world, tough guy?"

* * *

"Who the hell are they?"

"I don't know, man. I don't even know how I got here…"

"Where's my car? I was driving down fifth…"

"Why are those shorts so goddam bright? Where do you even get those?"

"Did we pay to get in here? I ain't got money for all this front row stuff…"

"Why isn't it working?" Sam said loudly over the noise. "He's got the ring, doesn't he?"

"He doesn't have it on!"

Bobby leaned over the rail of the front row. "Looks like Dean's moving. He's not down for the count yet, at least."

"What now?" Jesse looked at Sam. "You're the hunters! What do we do next?"

"We gotta make him put it on before he kills Dean!"

"How?" Bobby said. "We can barely hear ourselves think!"

But Sam had an idea. A crazy one that would probably get them killed, but…

He raced to the end of the row, beckoning the others.

"C'mon!"

* * *

War advanced on Dean, moving in for the kill.

"You know," he said way too calmly for Dean's liking, "you deserve this."

Dean grinned with the half his face that was still functional.

"A speech? Really?"

"You-"

War's face twisted into a snarl and he lifted his foot to kick when a gun went off and a bullet caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled, quickly regaining his balance.

"What the…"

"Take that, you son of bitch!"

Sam fired again, taking a chuck out of War's leg. War bellowed in rage, looking over the sides of the ring at Sam, Bobby, and Jesse as they approached.

"Arrrrgggghh!" he cried. He waved his arm and Dean watched Bobby fly across the arena and into the rails along the side.

"Bobby!" Dean tried to move. "Bobby!"

Sam and Jesse kept coming. Jesse threw one of the silver stakes, but War caught it and threw it back at him, striking him in the thigh. Jesse fell to the ground.

Sam stopped and looked back at him.

"Go!" Jesse tugged at the stake in his flesh. "I'll be fine! GO!"

Sam charged ahead again and tried to take another shot, but the gun was out of silver bullets. He tossed it, reaching inside his jacket for a stake.

"NO, SAM!" The pain barely registered as Dean climbed to his feet. "STOP!"

War held his hand up to Sam, stopping him in his tracks. Sam struggled against the invisible force, not moving an inch.

"ENOUGH!" War was breathing in gulps now. He held up the ring. "You're days of wreaking havoc are over, boys. It's reckoning time."

"No!" Jesse was still tugging at the stake in his leg. "Don't let him do it, Sam!"

He slipped the ring on.

The effect was instantaneous.

Light exploded from his eyes and ears and mouth, blinding Sam, who fell to the ground and covered his eyes. Dean watched from behind War as red light burst from the cracks erupting in his skin, bathing the arena in a crimson glow. Dean spared Jesse a momentary glance – he had stopped trying to remove the stake and sat watching, dumbfounded.

The light brightened, blotting out everything else from Dean's view. Its intensity increased until the light was nearly white, then disappeared. War collapsed to the ground, his eyes and mouth burned out and his rent skin smoking.

* * *

"Well. Show's over. Better go collect Red Riding Hood before he finds another vessel somewhere-"

"Not just yet."

Castiel disappeared.

Crowley sighed, kicking an old cup away and frowning at the dirty seat before sitting in it.

* * *

"Trystane!"

Jesse had finally managed to get the stake out of his leg and lurched toward them, his stride getting less awkward with every step. Dean tried to roll his eyes, and winced at the pain. The people who least needed things like healing powers were always the ones who ended up with them.

Sam wiped his eyes, trying to clear out the red spots.

"Are you all right, man?" he called.

"No."

Sam grinned, jogging over to Dean's corner of the ring. Dean slumped to the floor, resting his back against the corner pole.

"Trystane…" Jesse leapt into the ring, swinging his legs over the ropes. He knelt beside Trystane, touching his face and yanking his hand back when it burned. "What…"

"The vessel, kid," Dean said. "It wasn't powerful enough to hold him. When he put the ring on…"

"But…I thought that would only kill War!"

Sam and Dean exchanged uncomfortable looks.

Jesse rose slowly, stake in hand.

"Did you two know about this?" he asked dangerously.

Sam held out his hands. "Jesse…"

"Jesse."

Cas appeared in the other corner of the ring, his overcoat clean for once.

Jesse turned to look at him. "What?"

Cas touched two fingers to Trystane's forehead.

"It will be a while before he wakes." Cas walked up to Jesse. "You've helped me here today, Jesse. More than you know. My thanks."

Jesse's expression didn't change.

"Why are you doing this?"

Cas sighed, moving past him and toward Dean.

Sam watched Cas approach with undisguised relief.

"So, War, huh?" Dean chuckled, then groaned. "What is it good for, Sammy?"

It took a moment to register with Sam.

"Nothing, Dean," he said. "Absolutely nothing."

* * *

The people of Riverton filed into the parking lot, confused but unharmed.

"I'll send sentries to wipe their memories," Cas assured them as they headed out to the street. "It will be done gradually, but it will be done."

"Can you spare the men?" Sam said. "With the war you've got going with Raphael…"

"I'll handle it."

"All right, then." Dean stretched, pulling his arms over his head. "Mind giving us a lift back to the car, Cas? I don't wanna get stuck in this much traffic."

"Of course."

He took Sam and Dean first, then went back for the others.

Sam leaned against the hood. "You sure you're okay?"

"I just got touched by an angel, Sammy. I'm all better. Don't sweat it."

Bobby appeared, and Jesse and Trystane came soon after.

"Pack it in, ladies and gents," Dean said with no small measure of glee. "It's a long ride to Dakota."

"Forget it," Sam said. "I'm driving part of the way, Dean."

"The hell you are-"

"Actually," Bobby said, "why don't I drive the Impala back? Cas can drop you mooks off at my place, and I'll see you in a few days."

Dean was surprised. "It's a long drive, Bobby. You sure?"

"I need a little me time, son." He waved them on. "Go on. I'll see you soon."

"Okay," Sam shrugged.

* * *

They were sitting at Bobby's kitchen table eating bean burritos.

"I don't know," Trystane said. He had picked up a faint Aussie accent, and Dean had spent the better part of the last hour suppressing a grin whenever he spoke. "One minute, we were at this Indian place in Sydney, and the next I was laying on the floor of a boxing ring."

"You got no idea who took you?"

"Nada." He shook his head. "But I can't say I'm surprised. After Azazel, my life kind of went to hell, you know?"

Dean chuckled. "You're not alone on that score."

Trystane cocked his head. "So you're Sam and Dean Winchester, huh? Man, I've heard more than I ever wanted to about y'all."

"I'll bet." Sam took a swig of beer. "All good things, I hope."

"Nothing but the best," Trystane laughed. "Is it true you went to heaven and saw the garden?"

Dean blinked in surprise. "Yeah." He shook his head. "Whoever your sources are, hold onto 'em."

Jesse snorted derisively.

"C'mon, man," Trystane said. "I'm fine now. Let it go."

"They lied to me."

"I'm sorry, Jesse, we had to-"

"Shut up, Sam," he snapped. "You and that angel of yours are up to something-"

"Hey!" Dean pointed his bottle at him. "Cas saved your friend here, and didn't kill you," he said. "How about a little gratitude, huh?"

Jesse shook his head. "You're such a fool, Dean."

"We should go," Trystane said, standing. "I'm not in the mood for another battle. Sounds like the last one almost put my ass in the ground."

Sam stood with him, walking them to the door. He handed Trystane a jacket. "You guys need anything before you go?"

"We're good," he said. "And thanks, Sam. For Jesse, I mean."

"I know what it's like to be in those shoes. It was nothing."

Jesse stepped past Sam, silent.

"I'll see you again someday, Jesse," Sam said. "Maybe you'll have forgiven me by then."

"Yeah. Sure."

"We'll see you around, Sam. Tell your brother thanks again."

"Will do."

Sam watched them take a few steps and then disappear into the night.

* * *

Crowley locked the last of the sigils on the suitcase into place and handed it to Castiel.

"Three hundred souls, fresh out of the oven," he said. "He put up a hell of a fight, but I finally got him back downstairs."

Castiel looked at him suspiciously. "Three hundred? Aren't you taking half?"

"You need them more than me just now, I think." He slipped his hands into his pockets. "Besides, we're just getting started." Crowley looked curiously at him. "Nice memory wipe on the vessel, by the by. Now, why would you do a thing like that? Should have just let him die."

"He didn't have to die. It was possible to save him and still…keep things as they are."

Crowley was silent. "You know, Cas," he said. "I hope you're not having second thoughts about all this. You're either in or out, mate. You _are_ in, aren't you, Cas?"

Castiel sighed. "Of course." He looked at Crowley uncomfortably. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it. Now, where's the stone?"

Castiel handed it to him. He turned it over in his hands, examining it.

"No instructions?"

"No, but I'm sure we can deduce its function."

"As am I. As a matter of fact, let's start now." He snapped his fingers and a young vampire appeared before them, bound.

"Hello, dearie," Crowley said, taking her chin into his hand. "We've got a few questions for you. Care for a chat?"

* * *

Bobby arrived eight days later.

"Where the hell have you been, Bobby?" Dean was furious. He'd called him what must have been a thousand times and hadn't received so much as a text message. "We've been tearing our hair out here!"

"Pipe down," he said. "I was on vacation."

"Vacation? You were on _vacation_?" Dean chuckled. "He was on vacation, Sam."

"We were worried sick, Bobby. You couldn't have dropped us a line to let us know you were okay?"

He set his pack onto the table and tossed Dean the keys to the Impala. "Not exactly."

"What does that mean?" The keys felt good in his hand; Bobby wasn't the only thing he had missed.

"I went to visit a friend."

Sam was immediately suspicious. "What friend?"

Bobby looked guilty. "Dr. Visyak."

"So you've been getting it on all fucking week? That's why we couldn't reach you?"

"No!"

Sam and Dean stared at him through narrowed eyes.

"Okay, yes, but that's not all I been doin'. I asked her what she knew about what we've been dealing with."

"You mean War and Trystane and Jesse?" Sam said.

"No, I mean my IBS. Yes, War and Jesse and…"

"Trystane. He's a good dude." Dean grinned. "And he has this accent-"

"What did she say? She give us anything useful?"

"I'll say. She knows Trystane. Knew him, anyway."

Dean set his beer down hard. "What?"

"You heard right. She didn't give it up easy, but she was the one who helped him get out of old Yellow Eyes' trap. He slipped into-"

"Purgatory. Then he got back out. Right."

His head snapped in Sam's direction. "You knew about this?"

"Yeah, sorry. I found this"–he pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Dean– "in a hidden place in the wall where Trystane used to work."

Dean snatched it and read it. "Why didn't you say anything about this earlier?"

"Well, you guys had ditched me and kidnapped Jesse with no notice. Thanks for that, by the way. Jesse left me a note about Trystane's old job, that he had something hidden there. I went there and found this and…" He felt around in his pockets.

"What? Lose something?"

"Yeah." He frowned, checking his pants. "There was a stone. A black one…"

"It's not in the car," Bobby said. "Me and Elle…searched it. Before we got here. You know, for anything dangerous."

Sam grinned and Dean looked horrified.

"So this stone," Dean said, shaking his head, "you think you left it at Trystane's old job or what?"

Sam's face fell.

"What now?"

"War," he said. "He caught me there alone, almost killed me. He must have stolen it."

"War tried to kill you?!"

Sam shrugged. "Guess you should think twice about ditching without telling me, huh?"

"You should have waited for us!"

"I wasn't even sure you were alive, Dean."

"Hold on a sec." Bobby leaned against the table. "If War had you by the balls, how'd you get away?"

"Cas came and got me. He was just in time."

"So he fought off War and saved you."

"I guess so, yeah," Sam said. "What are you getting at?"

But Dean knew.

"Cas insisted he couldn't fight with us in Detroit because War was powerful enough to kill an angel."

"Well, so, I mean, maybe he gained some power before the fight."

"You really think so, kid?"

Dean shook his head. "This is crazy. C'mon, guys, it's Cas. Why would he lie about something like that? What would be the point?"

"I don't know, boys, but I don't like it." Bobby scowled. "She's not gonna be happy to hear that someone got that stone, though."

"How does she know about all this, anyway?" Sam asked. "How does she know about Purgatory?"

Bobby looked thoughtful. "I got a few ideas."

"Sharing is caring."

"Not just yet," he said mysteriously.

"Well, in any case, it's not our problem now. War took the thing, and it probably got destroyed when we ganked him. We can worry about your girlfriend later. Right now, we got Eve to think about. And your wall."

Sam started to speak.

"Don't even bother," Dean said. "I haven't forgotten that. So-"

Sam's phone beeped. He opened it up, reading the text message.

"Who's that?" Dean looked over his shoulder.

"I dunno. Call's from Rhode island. Says I should come back. Something's gone wrong."

"Who do we know there?" Dean frowned. "Sam-"

"We have to go, Dean-"

"No way-"

"It could be someone we know who needs help."

"It could be someone you knew when your soul was having a cage match with Lucifer," he pointed out. "We shouldn't do this, man."

"If I hurt people, I need to fix it," Sam said. "If it were you, you would insist on the same thing. Don't lie and say you wouldn't."

Dean tried and failed to summon a retort.

"Thank you." Sam looked far too satisfied for Dean's liking. He looked over at Bobby, who shrugged. _I ain't getting in his way again, _the look seemed to say.

_We're going to regret this, _Dean thought, pouring himself a shot of Jack in resignation. _We're gonna have so much regret for doing this we'll drown in a sea of it._

* * *

**Thanks so much for sticking with me through this fic! I know it's been pretty long since I last updated, but I just started graduate school and we had midterms! Anyway, I hope the last chapter was exciting and lived up to your expectations. This is my first fic, so please review if you have the time.**

**: D**


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